“End of Autumn”

Igor BurdinMottled colors flutter
like butterflies,
the pristine white
canopies —

Wind-parched leaves
mantle the oak-brown
soil with topaz and jasper
above the dormant seeds
of wilted wildflowers —

Hearken to horse-hoof
the muffled fracture
of petioles letting go
at the eleventh hour

when all the coins of time
are spent
and the egrets of winter
upon the emerald cedar

D. G. Vachal © 2015

Photo credit: Igor Burdin

“November the Penultimate”

November the Penultimate

Never was a month so motley in its days:
November, penultimate month
of a year that frames the seasons,
when the leaves in early days
turn to brightest garnet,
a blazing topaz,
illuminated gold —

The latter days come
with the fire of the winds,
and the burning leaves take the plunge
from infernal towers of the branches
to the burial grounds of a gun-
metal, brumal earth —

November, November,
calves ache from the marathon,
hearts pound the door
to another December

When holly berries huddle upon the petals
of the soft-spoken snow,
and the fallen leaves breathe again
at the sound of the carols of the children,
the children rejoicing.

D. G. Vachal © 2013

Photography Credit: November’s Decline by Bucaneve

“October Sunset”

October Sunset

How many sunsets have I missed
while threading needles,
tending the hearth,
kneading the flour
for our daily bread —

I chanced upon a sunset:
a brilliant bonfire in the sky
of apricot flames,
periwinkle smoke,
while autumnal leaves ripen
for the harvest —

bequeath the gold and rubies
to the children of spring.

by D. G. Vachal © 2013

*** photography by D. G. Vachal

Infinitely Green

Infinitely Green

For a moment 
take me away
from the mottled colors
of autumn,
far from the music
of brass trumpets
and trombones,
for I long to hear the sound
of forgotten
woodwinds —

Huddled pines stand,
upon the splendid mountains,
with balsam fragrance:
infinitely green
this very moment,
before the egrets
of winter

by D. G. Vachal © 2012

*** Photography: Lake Tahoe by Jason Woodcock

November Comes, My Love

November Comes, My Love

November, my love
is here again
and you are near
for warmth —

so many storms and seasons
we have weathered,
and now my arms
are leafless poplar
calloused from treacherous
bleached by salty floods
of rising tides —

furrows are sculpted
upon my face,
where streams flow
into endless rivers,
and yet behold,
a multitude of buttress dams
cannot contain
the sparkle of my laughter
above my nighttime

November comes, my love,
and you are near.

by D. G. V. © 2012