The sun, they say, is cooler now,
Its flame doesn’t burn as hot.
But it seems the moon is fuller now,
Blood red with a blushing thought.
The leaves have lost that green, it’s true,
But surrenders in rubies and gold.
Its beauty deepened with every hue,
And burned brighter in the cold.
The smell of apples in the air,
Heavy, heady and ripe.
It is as quenching as it swears:
It is not a kiss but a bite.
For what is Autumn but a harvest,
The reaping of all that’s sown?
The seeds have come to full burst,
Coming, at last, to its own.
*Author’s Note: What can I say? I am caught up in the season. I wrote the first 3 stanzas before bed and could not get it to feel complete. Went to sleep, woke up, and finished with the 4th and final stanza. It almost seems fitting. After all, it had to “come to its own” as well.
One of the things that astonished me while writing this, is how often it seems that inspiration does indeed feel divine–or at least, to come from some subconscious level, or exterior force. Why do I say this? Because while I was caught up in the first 2 lines “the sun, they say, is cooler now,/Its flame doesn’t burn as hot”, I almost intuitively wanted to write about the moon being fuller. But then, that got me to thinking, “IS that true? IS the moon fuller in Autumn than any other time?” I didn’t know. So, I Googled it. Turns out that it is. The Harvest Moon, or Hunter’s Moon, is brighter, allowing farmers to bring in their crops and hunters to track their prey for hours longer than usual (according to wiki). Isn’t that something?
My last poem and previous post, “The Sickle Wind” was about Autumn and Death. This time, I wanted to go for something different. I used Autumn to discuss one’s life, in particular, age. At 38, I’m not exactly a “spring chicken” but I will not apologize for it, either. I feel like I’ve shed some of the silliness that comes with being in one’s 20’s, and I like myself all the more for it.