OK So here are a couple of short poems I wrote about Autumn.
The Last RosePink tipped with brave buds
Stripped of half its leaves
The wind has finally stopped
and the prettiest blooms have dropped
Ice whipped but standing
I fear for you still
the freeze will burn slate
Should I cut them or wait?
Wild November and roses still bloom
and rose hips ripen all bright
I snip then leave you securely tied
and take all your jewelry inside
The second poem shares some sense of sound with your poem, Linda Sue.
Autumn SongThey stand like soldiers in camouflage
shushing the wind, their ravaged branches
snatching at the dappled leaves that rush away
on the swift current of an unseen tide,
falling at length to rattle the pavement,
beating hypnotic rhythms as they dance,
beguiling the children,
luring them into the evening chill.
"Come play with me," the whispered chant,
"Come play with me before the snow can bind my feet."
Joy stirs the piles of crackling leaves,
with no thought of raking,
and winter snow for sculpture,
not for shoveling,
but dreams for making
I know the second poem still needs something, but I have not yet discovered what.
Karena AndrusyshynPoetry