November’s brassy rainbow exploded.
Colder, darker, frost blackens the garden,
but daylight that’s shorter is brighter.
As trees lose leaves, the sky expands, reveals
nests of squirrels and wasps—hearts in skeletons.
Bare branches give us maps of triangles
within triangles. Pines, backstage in summer,
interpret the shapes of the wind.
At dusk, returning from my walk, I see
through grays and browns a patch of yellow lace
so like forsythia, I wonder which
saplings are mimicking this sign of spring.
Same height, same—wait! They are forsythia,
their last leaves mirroring their own first buds.
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Dear Poeter, Man is certainly
Dear Poeter, Man is certainly not likely to know the natural spoken language. The touch of the wind, the fragrance of the flowers, the nodding of the leaves, the philosophies of the color of the rainbow and many more natural forms are embedded in aesthetics. The poem is full of thoughts like a candle light, soothing thoughts in a motive of decline will release the darkness. This poem really impressed me. All The Best My Dear Friend; Write More Congratulations
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