Old Poem: Autumn Morning

This time of year, I really miss Seattle. I miss the distinct change of seasons, the turning of leaves, the cool weather. It was 90 degrees today and not a colorful tree to be seen.

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Autumn Morning

Passage of days grows damp and dull, lost
amid fallen leaves, pine needles on the sidewalk.

A squirrel skull sits atop the fence post, white
bone almost radiant in thin autumn sun.

Late October, feminine curve of new moon
glows above western horizon, cold morning.

For a moment, I stare into dark holes, wonder
what the small eyes see now, where they gaze.

My own eyes are caught by a young crow riding
the crest of a red cedar swaying under its weight.

Some message in this day, the way elements merge
in a single instant, a conspiracy of meaning.

Tags: Autumn Morning, time, season, poetry, poem