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AUTUMN
I see a dream as I look into a magnificent Autumn sky.
And when I hear the howl of my wolf dog
I say, “Yes!”
The cry for its mate of a soaring hawk
touches the ears of my soul,
and again,
I say, “Yes!”
My eyes settle on the mountain's turning aspens
and as I see yellow teardrops
drifting to their resting place,
I repeat another, “Yes!”
In celebration,
I take yesterday’s evening goblet and tipping it towards my lips
catch a remnant of the sherry’s bouquet.
Then,
from within I hear a whispering echo
resonating among the remaining drops of liquid
and the burnished bottom of my vessel,
Yes! Yes! Yes!
The gold of the liquor mixing and matching
always with the timbre of the metal
speaks to me of soul dreams.
Comes the haunting question:
Will they ever come to pass in the face of
“I don't knows?”
Courage mounts the steed
and a Yes! breaks
into the meadow's morning.
Silver threads of cobwebbed time dance in the crisp September air.
In their spectrum I catch a glimpse
of my life’s history.
Begs the question:
Why is the edge of the meadow so far away?
Stay near at hand!
Near at hand!
I say as marauding gusts and the flux of seasons
seal another Fall.
Finally,
the film of my mind unwinds
on the clouds’ silver screen
reflecting the tomb of time as an open casket
full of the joys of life.
From Iris and Other Things: A Collection, Don Davison
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