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Autumn Gleanings.

From the Palette of Mother Nature.

From the Palette of Mother Nature.

Autumn Gleanings.


Behold the handicrafts of God,


observe now as his Winter looms,

stitch needled specks of crystal white.

Each weaving flawless,

thick piled blankets,

all across the three day stubble

of earth's craggy face forlorn,

hiding where the corn was shorn.

All of the finest syrup's been labeled,

gleaned sap tapped, from sugar maples,

Trees that weeks ago

were bent in festive dance.

Long limbs thrashing in

October's wood smoked breeze,

amidst confetti, swirling round them

red and orange.

These same trees that held sweet nectar

lined the lanes in crimson splendour,

leading to my humble home.

They're all barren now, save for

their tiny tear shaped buds emerging,

from where fallen leaves broke free.

Buds that patiently await

the distant call of natures urging,

when they'll stretch

to taste the nursing clouds,

of Spring at last reborn.

No more furrows line the foreheads,

of old farmers who've reaped bounties,

lines that once were deep enough to match,

the fresh plowed soil they'd turned.

This years harvest brought them plenty,

unlike other seasons learned,

All those empty husks where they'd sought

cornucopias of cash.

Still I'm wishing I could hibernate,

like bears and sleeping squirrels,

near a fire filled with round logs,

fatter then my Auntie's pasta.

I would snooze away the Winter,

near my dearest darling curled,

only stirring when the wood stove

bids me feed it's gaping maw,

hickory slices from my saw..

But my son begs me to join him

in a tousle headed frolic

on his high that's metabolic,

in our homestead so bucolic.

Coaxing this old workaholic

from poetic thoughts symbolic,

mixed with daydreams melancholic,

so I'll shed my slipper shoes

and go to wrestle off my blues.

© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III

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