Outside My Windiw Xvii Poem by Frank Avon

The light
even the light
is autumnal,

sober as a Miltonic nun,
wrapping the grounds
in saffron, tinged with solemnity.

The shadows, under her tutelage,
grow longer, larger,
darker, more persistent.

The light,
even in midmorning,
at midday,

throughout the long afternoon,
even the light,
is mourning something undefined.

(Let me not give way to regrets, to disillustionment.
Let me not weep.
Let me not slip headlong into despondency.)

The light,
even the light,
is cast aslant,

veiling her face,
pulling her cape about her breast,
her train stretching along the ground, all the way to Distress.