November the SeventeenthNovember the SeventeenthPerhaps tears are eloquent where words failBecause they whisper syllablesThat every language understands.
Last Dance of the SeasonsLast Dance of the SeasonsSo now November kisses him goodbyeWith a touch whose love cannot endureAnd Winter never knows the reason whyShe hangs her head to golden tear-drops cryOn ground his sorrow washes white with hoarSo now November kisses him goodbyeEternal promised love a weeping lieNo time-bound thing can last forevermoreAnd Winter never knows the reason whyHe calls down all his armies from the skyIn wrath, his heart is brimming full of warSo now November kisses him goodbyeShe shudders with a wail and strives to flyThe arms and fingers which she did adoreAnd Winter never knows the reason whyThese lovers always parting with a sighAs they first met, but seemingly beforeAnd Winter never knows the reason whyShe never lingers hence for any plyHer numb, forsaken sweetheart can imploreBut now November kisses him goodbyeAnd Winter never knows the reason why
Autumn Impressions IIAfter PoetryI have found the most excellent of diversions:Chucking acorns at a large, wide tree trunk;My fingers pluck and my feet spring fromGrass patch to grass patch.The hollow dull thwack they make bouncing awayWith golden-nutty glistening.(Except when my shots go wide.)Moving OnThe stuttering breeze speaks of loneliness,Of missing something.Birds, birds,Moving on.They wander away from the coming chill.They glisten in the airLike age-worn diamonds.Strings and rows and flocks and multitudes.A few birdsMany birdsRise through the sighing air on song-filled wingsWith a hopeful dirge in their going.They blot out the silver half-coinOf theMoon.
Autumn ImpressionsAutumn ImpressionsI Hear RavensI hear ravens.In a bower of leavesA tower of twigs?I hear ravensBut I cannot see them.WishingI see dandelions on the quad This reminds me that you can still make wishes,even in October.HalosThe rain sings off the leaves,Down the downspoutsAnd makes halos around lampposts in the dark
Too FastToo FastWith the hot summer daysBecomingShorterAutumn comes too fastLike the car speeding nearer down the streetWhich I dont think is going to stopAt the crosswalk
How We Make MusicHow We Make MusicNever was I decisive enough to twist open an Oreo;MyHesitationBroke the measure in pieces(A deft flick, a quick wristResult in two halves, icing on cookie An elegant disassembly.)My fingers werent made for shuffling cardsNeither deftNor dexterousSlow, painful sorting sharps and flats(You shuffle cards, sheets on the standPlaying spades and clubs,Constructing a card-house of notes.)Chess? I dont know what the black onesDo or the whiteThe rules are beyond meBut I could pick them up and move them(You know how many spaces this wayAnd a rook from a bishop from an eighteenth note.Who taught you to craft each chord like a well-thought move?)Nevertheless, my music is yet sweet in its brokenness.While the spades and clubs come wrong,Though I move the pieces move against every rule,I still play.(So I will play piano hesitantly. Clumsily. Ignorantly.And with the recognition that my musicIs music in spi
WanderersWanderersThe proof of a cold day is in its lonelinessIn the chilly-damp bench with moss and curling dead leavesAt its baseCrab apples underfootSullen silver descends upon the empty football fieldWith the trill warning of a construction truck echoing fromAcross over in the town
The wind is my friendBecause it also does not know where it is going