Free Fall

Free Fall
Christopher Bogart

Autumn morns fall frosty bold.
Still cold colors trees,
Retreating green,
To scarlet, gold,
And russet red
In faded shades,
Their leaves
Drift
From thin mahogany stems
Not to retreat
But to retire
In a silent conspiracy
With a cold north wind.

These wooden soldiers line the roads
In wait for the late great sun
To run its faded course,
Leaving land to chill and dim
As if in grim twilight.

Soon dying shrivels brittle brown.
Soon the pale sky’s eye fades and fails.
Dry leaves quail at the chilling breeze.
Milkweed angels, flying high,
Surrender to the wind. They fall
To the stone cold ground below.

Parchment leaves on sheaves of corn
Flutter worn,
Wave farewell to warmth, in a
Short quick fall to silence.

Nature dies without a tear.
Ennui permeates the air.
Black bats flutter
Webbed wings to vacant barns,
There to scream from splintered rafters
At the orange bright, quick round
Of the harvest moon.

It’s promises beneath they’re bound to keep.
So deep below the white of winter sleep,
They dream the temperate dreams of dewy morns.