“…gathering swallows twitter in the sky.”
—John Keats, “To Autumn”
Come autumn, gathering swallows twitter in the sky;
their song portends oncoming bitter from the sky.
Chickadees hop amid the rose hips ‘til
in pursuit of blue they flitter toward the sky.
Lingering gladioli lean along the fence
aiming one last blossom-spitter at the sky.
Indian summer, you old scoundrel, heartbreak
mocker of the stars, you are a counterfeiter of the sky.
Earlier darkness doesn’t faze the ever-blinking
radio red eye of the transmitter in the sky.
Electronics do not know this is the melancholy
season, though they sense a jitter in the sky.
It is the season when things die, return to haunt
in guises ravelled by cloud-knitters in the sky.
When I am old…am I already old?…then I
will head, shed all this earthly litter, for the sky.
O hold me tight tonight, you cold, you bright
immutable, you ever-fickle glitter in the sky.
AUTUMN IN THE SKY