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Autumn

10/29/2013

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Picture
AUTUMN



leaves of gold and orange and crimson flame

across every roadway,
line canyons on upslopes and shimmer
in open meadow sunlight
bold and sharp color wraps round my yard
weaves through my hedges
cheers loudly along the riverside path

months before autumn sends forth its familiar shiver
robins weave their nests in sturdy crotches of naked limbs
to wait as spring awakens in ruffles of pale green chiffon
like the hesitating entry of young maidens
tittering and blushing at their first dance

then days and nights of stuffy rooms, while outside
scarlet roses clamor wildly up the trellis by the door
supple vines full with thumb-sized blackberries tug at sagging fences
honey bees buzz lazily
lavender and mint thicken the air with sweetness

in autumn comes the leavings –
of former selves, disillusioned lovers, shallow friends and weary elders –
lives once aflame with possibility and hope
fading and turning to rust at the doorstep
whisked along back alleys by chilly gusts of what is yet to be

yet while they linger
gray embers of remembrance
stir into crackling blazes that warm
winter nights of dreams

phyllis boernke © october 2013


O    O    O    O    O    O

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neighbors and other strangers

10/9/2013

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fireside stories


Fully mature, leaves of harvest gold and late summer green,
limbs of ash and elm buck in gale force winds
early snowfall weighs down those groaning giants
determined to break their spirits.

Howling winds, incessant snowfall, bearing wetness
like last summer’s thunderstorms,
take no pity on delicate leaves
slender branches and hardy limbs that succumb.

Sizzling, arching flame
brilliant orange flash
explosion the magnitude of
a hundred nearby thunderclaps.

silence

Power lines broken
connection to the world severed
winds insistent on having their own way
snow falling, rising, sideways, up and down.

Neighbors in high top boots, scarves and gloves
brave the fury to invite, entice, persuade –
Come. Stay the night.
Our wood pile is dry, our room is warm.

Storm rages relentless, whiteness blankets the universe.
We fan the embers of quietness, long neglected,
draw our chairs up close, sip hot tea,
and speak our stories into timelessness.

-- phyllis boernke © 2013 --

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the embrace

10/2/2013

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Brigadoon I

once every hundred years
it rises from the mists
shimmering
in utopian glory

those who wander in and stay
flourish
embraced by Love’s presence
unrestrained

those who arrive
in its morning
and depart again at its dusk
ever after hunger

for a vision
nameless
just out of reach



Brigadoon II


once

every hundred years

what do you make of it?

         -  pb © 2012  - from "untying the web"


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