An Observation By Capt. Poe Poem by Stephen S. Yeandle

Begins the slow melancholy dance of Autumn.

Fallen colored waxen tiles cover the last
remaining sprouts of green, that not so long
ago were new.

Beseeched and then provoked,
I am restless in my sleep.

Beneath my ship the tide conspires
and acts together with my wish,
and tugs against my ties.

Insistent persuasive memory of southern
trades command,
luring me perceptively
to leave this place behind.

Our always welcome visitants have for months
performed and now fled south to
lower latitudes,
as should I.

Away, the
vindictive polar wind that soon arrives,
to leave faceless all the dancing girls
of spring and summer brought.

A gray
suspension
despondent sky
an icy harbor
belabors me.

Foretelling of sequestered
ships unable then to move.
Quarantined we
soon shall be,
none will come nor go.