Poetry

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by Mariane Holbrook

I weep for Fall
for in the distance
beats the faint, insolent, steady
drumbeat of death.
But Fall, hopeful and unheeding,
still lavishes her maples
with glorious crimson and gold
to flaunt before
an eager, waiting world.

With each morning chill,
Fall ignores the season’s threats
and paints ever more feverishly,
as the autumn sun
puts its celestial spotlight
on each brilliant leaf
on the vast northern ridge.

But finally Fall bows her lovely head
in grief and disbelief
and weeps silently
as raging storms
angrily rip still-stunning leaves
from their bearings
and they flutter
helplessly and wordlessly
to their certain graves.


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