The Monarch is one of the most beautiful butterflies. Add the tantalizing orange hues of a bunch of these creatures in a glorious golden sunset - that is sheer poetry.
leaves dance down from trees donning their
ascetic robes for the winter. Robed in white,
they will perform repentance for their sin of pride,
an unwavering curse of the summer that melted away.
The last rose blooms in my garden, a red obituary to
the leaves that have now gone dancing with the wind. The first
blood-red peony of spring smiles on from
between the now-fragrant pages of Shakespeare. Dry russets
fill my larder with the essence of summer sunshine.
Wet gumboots bear testimony to the attraction of a translucent
chrysalis in the fallen maple leaves. The last Monarch
regally sits upon my rose, is immortalized by my camera
and then flits away to his fate upon sunset wings.
The neighbor's little girls romp and dance with the leaves,
squealing their innocent joy in the evening breeze. I return to
my tea laced with lemon and honey, and smile at
the wrought-iron leaves framing me and my lover in
liplock - the orchids will blush there forever.
Poetry by Arti
Read 1168 times
Written on 2006-10-15 at 17:05
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An Autumn Evening.... in Orange
The world is saturated with browns and golds. Saucyleaves dance down from trees donning their
ascetic robes for the winter. Robed in white,
they will perform repentance for their sin of pride,
an unwavering curse of the summer that melted away.
The last rose blooms in my garden, a red obituary to
the leaves that have now gone dancing with the wind. The first
blood-red peony of spring smiles on from
between the now-fragrant pages of Shakespeare. Dry russets
fill my larder with the essence of summer sunshine.
Wet gumboots bear testimony to the attraction of a translucent
chrysalis in the fallen maple leaves. The last Monarch
regally sits upon my rose, is immortalized by my camera
and then flits away to his fate upon sunset wings.
The neighbor's little girls romp and dance with the leaves,
squealing their innocent joy in the evening breeze. I return to
my tea laced with lemon and honey, and smile at
the wrought-iron leaves framing me and my lover in
liplock - the orchids will blush there forever.
Poetry by Arti
Read 1168 times
Written on 2006-10-15 at 17:05
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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