Taylor Coleman


There's a half broken glass whiskey bottle
Lying in front of a porch swing
Its sunspot gleaming intensively
Can be seen yards away
On the playground
The red plastic slide
On a mound of wood chips
Stands erect and untouched
Only brushed slightly by the sashaying
Of falling leaves
The wind whisk through
The tree top canopy
A small forest median
Dividing the rural life
From the freedom of the highway

A reddish-purple sunset
Sinks behind the forest
Miles and miles away its presence
Can be felt
The bird's roosted high above
Echo their calls
An old stray panting
As he sniffs and then waits
For his owner
Who will never come back
There's a new becoming in the distance
As the moon can be seen peeking
Out from the clouds
The middle of September is coming
Day by day to its finale
Of a showering of leaves

And what creatures
Whom I do not and cannot see
Will take it upon themselves
To use the leaves as shelter
The last storm
Perhaps for awhile
Echos the sounding of drums
The roll of thunder
And as nature begins to die
A new-found sense of living
Is unearthed in me
Spring is dying
A new year to live for
Is arising

Autumn comes
And with eyes stitched shut
I open my arms
And look towards the azure of the sky
I fall back onto the Earth's shawl
While a church bell in the distance
Rings of hope, of a future time
Hidden within my white smile
A laugh lies intact
Even in natures death
There is rebirth

Don't we all dream and not wish to know
That as the seasons grow old
We pass unknowingly onward
Back to that familiar comfort zone
A lost soul running back home

Poem Submitted: Friday, October 15, 2010

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