Autumn is a clumsy bony skeleton,
who looks at himself in the mirror
and sees himself the way he wants to appear –
rounded, fleshy, so intelligent, filled out –
believing his legend of colour,
The false myths of harvest and plenty.
Autumn, you are a congenital liar,
Your hypocritical sunshine glows
But there is no warmth in its sad light.
Its heat eludes us, hiding in the yellow leaves,
Pretending fiery affection while it hates us.
Why must the earth tilt farther from the sun?
What did I do to chase it away,
To alienate it?
Even prayer does not seem to draw it back to my life.
I dream of tropics,
The harsh light of August sun.
Equator could become a caressing love word.
But what can I equate with autumn?
My mother has a nightmare of drifting leaves.
Shivers if they touch her dry skin;
Sure if one wafts through a open window, death will follow.
Autumn is merely a warning,
The hissing of a wrathful impolite beast,
So starved we can see its broken bones through its skin.
If you have any comments on this poem, Lucile Barker would be
pleased to hear them.