Keeping with Wallace Steven’s structure and theme of beauty in the barren winter of life, I find myself contemplating the transitions in life; the autumns of life – not quite summer, not quite fall, and never permanent.
One must have a mind of autumn
To regard trembling aspen memories
Of honey gold leaves quaking in the wind whisped path;
And have lived many times in between seasons
To behold the fleeting and ever passing illustrious fire colors,
The wilting land in the September sun
Of the shifting winds; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wavering breeze
In the sound of those last dangling memories
Which is the sound of the living
Full of reverence of the dying
That is blowing us through one season into the next
For the listener, who listens to the inevitable October air,
And, beholds everything, beholds
Everything that is not there and everything that is.