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It’s autumn and the trees,
bereft of summer’s verdant leaves,
that tumbled down and down and down,
green, red, yellow, orange, and brown,
a magical carpet on the ground.
Beneath the trees tall plants still rise,
pay homage to late summer's skies;
feel the wrath of frosty breath,
and weave their gentle dance of death.
© by Ron Stewart.
Used with the author’s permission.
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Ron Stewart is a retired airline pilot who started writing poetry in the early '90s. The author of two self-published poetry collections and two cookbooks, his work has been published in a variety of magazines and journals and has won several awards. Ron lives in Kilworth, a small village outside London, Ontario, with his wife of 50+ years, his dog Calliope, and cat Penelope. An environmentalist long before that term became popular, Ron's family refers to him as "the compost cop."
 
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wayne.goodling@yahoo.com:
Nice. Thank you.
Posted 10/27/2020 10:56 AM
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Jancan:
"Frosty breath" . . . "dance of death"--vivid descriptions.
Posted 10/24/2020 10:24 AM
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Lori Levy:
Like the image of the plants still growing beneath the trees.
Posted 10/23/2020 06:19 PM
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paradea:
Like this!!!
Posted 10/23/2020 10:35 AM
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finney@charter.net:
Love the childlike innocence of the first verse and the rhyme, but then paused to read several times the last two lines...haunting.
Posted 10/23/2020 10:22 AM
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cork:
Nice rhyme work.
Posted 10/23/2020 08:58 AM
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