Walking Through Autumn Poem by Daniel Brick

Walking Through Autumn

Rating: 4.6


Powerlines along my path bristled
with electric fire, scorching
the raised brow of September'

Just past a green patch of sumac,
I found my neighbor Terence, waiting,
letting his dog wander the meadow.

We spent a few minutes
bent over thew meadow flowers
looking for the bergamot plant.

He straightened first.
'We can't see it, but we know
it's here. Even the dog smells it.'

'Yes, ' I said, still searching.
'Smelling it is reward enough, '
and I realized it was time to part.

I ambled east, further into
the treeless meadow. His gold dog
led him west toward a grove of aspen.

No doubt he too walked as slowly
as this summer was becoming autumn.
The scarecrows were all fast asleep.

A lone hawk glided far above
the birds of passage. I imagined
an evening drinking Earl Grey tea,

and writing again those long letters
I once called 'massive missives'
before sleeping as deeply as the scarecrows.


Small groups of Canadian geese,
five of them, crossed the cloudy sky.
Their honking raised my eyes
from earth to heaven, and I stopped
raking to watch them disappear
into thick clouds, no longer winged things
but just dots, like crooked ellipses,
sinking into the depths of heavy paper,
whatever message they were spelling
by their flight, smudged, then erased,
lost in whiteness....


The bronze path through the woods
crunches under our shoes. Hard earth
holds steady. The delicate higher branches
of a leaning aspen map another way out.
The air, sliced by flights of bees,
bleeds summer warmth over this November day.

Ages ago, you stopped counting our steps.
We walk. side by side, in an 'andante' rhythm,
as if we have nothing else to hope for.
The smoky scents of autumn cannot be denied.
We breathe them as we climb a steep slope
of leafless trees. Breathless at the top,

we keep moving, as certain of reaching
our true home as the geese winging overhead.


The sunroom is without light. You slouch
in a big chair, wrapped in a dark blue blanket.
Your brown eyes are the brightest spots
to be seen, and the many-colored glow
of the television provides the only window
into the outside world. It is the middle
of the evening...

Scraps of paper litter the floor. A few pages
float about, refusing to land, unwilling
to lie forgotten. In my library, a single bulb
illuminates a volume of Goethe. I am turning
the pages slowly, and it is enough. Pelleas
is already asleep, his head tucked loosely
under his cowl. Just beyond this white wall

in front of me, clouds fold into each other,
and a deluge of snow is poised to fall all winter long.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: narrative
Fabrizio Frosini 29 December 2014

Nice work, Daniel. Have to say that I prefer October to the other parts (but also the pass - We walk. side by side, in an 'andante' rhythm, / as if we have nothing else to hope for.-, from November, is entrancing) . I especially love the inner musicality in your verses: [..] no longer winged things but just dots, like crooked ellipses, sinking into the depths of heavy paper, whatever message they were spelling by their flight, smudged, then erased, lost in whiteness. This is real Poetry [capital P], Daniel. Thanks for sharing!

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Susan Williams 22 February 2016

This is the magic called literature. If I were not so stunned, I could probably write a thousand words about your piece but I am [almost] speechless. You are now on my speed-dial for important poetry to read. Thank you for sharing your talent with us.

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Daniel Brick 22 February 2016

I just saw your comment this afternoon. I am happy with your description of the magic called literature. That is a wonderfully rewarding comment to receive. It makes me want to keep doing the hard work of writing to achieve that magic. And I'm stunned to be a speed-dial poet.

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Denis Mair 23 February 2016

It's an unabashedly contemplative poem which watches nature and self- the way each is discovered through the other. The personal details of an examined life come through, such as your nostalgia for the time when you wrote massive missives. The intrinsic value of thought is respected in such a memory, and also in anticipating the volume of Goethe under a single bulb. There is a habit of watching for signs of things to come in nature; it is a way of attuning to the flow of time. .

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Tan Pratonix 16 November 2018

High class poetry. Touching last lines. You have a way with words. I hope you got your poems published. God bless you, Daniel. Rated 10.

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Robert Murray Smith 22 April 2018

Daniel, your imaged filled poem delights those who love nature.

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Nudershada Cabanes 22 February 2018

Excellent narrative with rich and vivid imagery. I can see the scene in my mind as I read along.

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Bharati Nayak 23 November 2017

The images of different seasons are so vivid and so lively as if I am experiencing them myself..Every line has a seasonal flavor to it.Absolutely amazing poem.I hope it gets to the front page of Poem Hunter.

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Smoky Hoss 13 November 2017

What a fantastic poem; absolutely loved it.

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Daniel Brick 13 November 2017

Thanks Smoky. This is one of my favorite poems. It was meant to throw a wide net and pull in all of autumn.

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