Hi Gary. The title remended me of  Paul Verlaine's 'Song of autumn', and
even more so when one remembers the opening lines were used to signal to the
French Resistance that the invasion of Europe was going to start the day
after.

The long sobs
of autumn's violins
wound my heart
 with a monotonous
languor.

Suffocating
 and pallid,
when  the clock strikes,
 I remember
 the days long past
 and I weep.

And I set off
in the rough wind
 that carries me
 hither and thither
 like a dead
leaf.

----- Original Message -----
From: "Gary Blankenship" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Monday, November 10, 2003 10:12 PM
Subject: The Winds of Autumn


The Winds of Autumn

Leaves blow against the house,
into blind corners by the stairs,
on the back porch to cover
an ordered disarray like mud
and dirt-green crackled drifts.

There is nothing in this loose foliage
of the tones sought by artists
and photographers - no red, yellow,
lime, or the orange that only
seems to come round at Halloween.

These soiled leaves pile umber
and common brown as if ready
in this burning season for body bags,
each leaf the color of sand drifts
and khaki soaked with dried blood.

This winter grips maple and alder
forests tight and will not give way
until each grimy leaf is a shredded,
broken memory like the promises
so lightly made the spring before,

when even cracked limbs seemed
to avoid the fall to widow-maker
and we remembered autumn's leaves
were yellow, orange and blood red.

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