trees

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A Ten Years Old Poem

Autumn Apologia

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,
Nor dogwood’s leaves of ruby red, or birch’s honeyed hue;
Abundant odes of homage have been writ to pay their due,

But still, 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 let’s absolve the impulse, once again, to pencil this:
Nature’s shedding season, bedding down for winter’s kiss.

Kat Mortensen©2010

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The Fall

Imagine all the leaves on trees,
Are persons waving in the breeze
Of spring and summer—soon to fall,
They live in harmony with all.

Through sun and rain they float on air,
Extend to others, kindness—care;
They open themselves to shelter wings,
Without complaint or any strings.

Come autumn and our dear ones drop;
The wild-eyed winds each stripling, strop,
Then we step up to rake them in—
Souls of the Dead, unstained by sin.

We toss them on their funeral pyre,
To watch their flames dance ever higher,
Float up to Heaven’s Gate, unbarred,
And rightly claim their just reward.

Kathleen Mortensen © 2008