Sunday, October 2, 2011

October prairie: a poem


Fingers of frost,
the first of the year,
crisp on the mowed trail;
Traces of breath
like a ghost of the morning.
Sunlight splinters the prairie
into light and shadow,
and then a sudden burst, and
all is golden.

The colors of forbs and grasses--
mustard, ecru, khaki, ochre,
burnt umber and sienna--
no palette could approximate,
though once the subtle tapestry
touched each horizon;
and the sky, more distant than ever,
is almost cruelly blue.

And then, from somewhere
just out of reach:
the aching cry of a meadowlark.
I'd not thought to hear it again.



I composed this yesterday at Weldon Springs while waiting for the Audubon group. The birding was so-so but the company was good and often, even if I don't get the birds, when I spent time out in nature I get inspired to jot something down. Autumn used to be my favorite season but now it makes me a bit melancholy -- I hope both of those sentiments came through.

1 comment:

  1. Your poem is beautiful! It makes me so homesick for a prairie in the Fall. Mom

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