Tag Archives: Fall

Maple Leaf

Alone in a quiet park
off a country road
I wait in the dusk
for a crimson maple leaf
to fall
into the dark river.

– Copyright Kay Winter

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An Ode

To the last light on the lake
on a day in November
pretending to be October.

And to the book
left open
on my lap
with pages from
every other Autumn.

Copyright Kay Winter

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The Far Meadow

The Fall I was back home
walking the woods each afternnoon,
ambling the remembered paths
past the pond,
the low hills,
across the wide old log
spanning the blackwater creek.

One late day
as I was leaving the woods for home,
pulled by the heaviness there,
you ran past
and called,
toward my downcast face,
“Deer running in the far meadow.”

And so through the falling dusk,
I turned my steps,
and took the shortcut
past the sugar house,
along the treeline,
and the deer ran past me,
wild and beautiful
in the last light.

I came every day after that,
as Fall wore away to winter,
as the leaves drifted down,
turned brown,
crackled underfoot,
and every day
you, whoever you were,
called out to me,
where the deer ran.

I missed days at Christmas
but returned with my good fortune
on New Year’s day,
but you, whoever you were,
were gone.

I moved away soon after,
and wandered different woods.

But I want to tell you,
you, whoever you were,
that no matter how many stones
we cast or carry,
the deer are running
in the far meadow.

– Copyright Kay Winter

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Collage Poem: Bend Down All the Flowers


Bend down all the flowers
until your face is up
into the blue spring lilac
barefoot all the summer mornings
until dahlia sundown passage
of zinnias and the last cornflowers
on the table in the hallway
toward autumn
the door left open
for the yellow drift down.
– Copyright Kay Winter

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There is no night but this night,
My fingers almost too cold
And shaking to write.
Nothing ever to drink
But what is in my glass now.
No friends but the ones just departed.
No sound but their laughter in the alley walking home,
and the faint crunch of the first fallen leaves.
No solitude but this solitude,
waiting at my back gate for me to beckon.
No scent but this woodsmoke.
No warmth, but the thought of your shoulder.
No moon but this autumn half moon.
No stars but these,
waiting for Orion.

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