Argent is driving the bus this week and the challenge is to write a piece about meetings. (Please click on the link for all Poetry Bus riders.)
My initial impulse in response, was to attempt to pull together my reading of “Ulysses” with the Poetry Bus and I was almost there, but it still needs much work to pull it off.
This morning, I was looking out the kitchen window of my apartment as I buttered my toast and was moved to grab my pen and a pad of paper. I hope you like the result. The “meeting” is subtle, but I’m sure you’ll appreciate it.
Don’t write of every one that falls from branch at Autumn-time;
Resist those vibrant colours gone to rust and gold, from lime.
No need to mark the pull of breeze that tugs from tender tree;
Better men than we, have said it all, so leave it be.
Don’t speak of sugared-maples, in their burning-glory daze;
Of lazy oaks, slow-turning acorns’ minions to a blaze,
Of dogwood’s purple palmates; birches, high, of honeyed hue;
Abundant odes of homage have been writ to pay their due,
And yet, the flutter, floating—free, that carries each one down—
The dance of profuse partners, tumbling, tripping top to crown,
Can turn the head unfailingly; the pen to page, so fleet;
Each instance when a leaf descends to earth, its end to meet.
So, we’ll forgive the impulse once again to talk of this:
Nature’s shedding season, bedding down for winter’s kiss.