Artless autumn leaves now fallen lifeless on the ground
have reached the end of summer's journey intricately found
as a multicolored blanket, blown by fall's frail breath;
the forest's fragile overlay has now met with death.
Aristotle's burden joined with nature's philosophy
has fallen from lone empowerment atop the tallest tree.
Veining winsome winter words uttered in remorse,
have willed the vegetation's fall on a steady downward course.
Pythagoras' calculations could not save the leaves,
the fronting cold devoured them like sticky fingered thieves.
As utter-less as Socrates, the treetops' speechless words
have beckoned in the winter and uprooted all the birds.
This purer pulse of winter's stiffness nipping at our heels,
runs a slower course of time, unheeding our appeals.
Christine, Although rhyme is not one of my favorite things. I love this poem. You handled this so well. It's a very smart work. A pleasure to read you, and looking forward to reading more of you. Warm Regards, Carolynn
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Well done indeed, Christine. A masterful use of rhyme, without the pretense oft associated. Moreover, I rather enjoyed it. Thank you for sharing. ams