Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Invitation to Intimation





















An Intimation of Autumn :
My ‘Own’ Devotional Ode
By  L.P. - G.

 I

A season’s sweetest feast
Descends, amid cool misty morns;
Through lushly hallowed fields
It treads, besieged by rampant storms. 
August plays the sentinel,
Relieved of farewell norms,
        A leaf burns golden; later, red;
(And hence, September’s born).


    It plots with poise to consecrate
       A fruitful sun we celebrate;
    How does it bring such grace and light
    To dappled harvests, void of blight?
       Ripe crops are seen to richest core;
         Bloating the gourd, through a sweetness thus poured;
       Setting fall’s table and still so much more,
           Until failing buds ‘waken’: freshened… restored.

Hence, fetch latent flowers for every type bee,
Send warmest-wishes on free, bended knee;
          For Summer holds promises right up its sleeve
Of this, (of course): I’ll admit,

I  SO believe!!

II
Yet, Summer sun and Autumn sun, past friendship of a kind;
Whoever seeks their succor-strength may sometimes coolly find
  Both seasons dwelling carelessly along a drafty floor,
     Tresses gently lifted-up by winter’s windy score;
  Or on a half-reap'd furrow-trail, now fast and sound asleep,
      Dipped in shades of poppy-smoke; red-crimson, crisp and deep,
          Dreaming not of fallowed fields, but fertile swaths of flowers:
Watching through the sun’s keen lens, these final oozing hours.
  And sometimes like a helping-hand, one of them, or more,
Embarks on fields grown thick with wheat, returned to nature’s core.
      September spins its sturdy web across a trenchant brook;
      The night-sky, traced by cider-spice, gives one last solemn look.



III

  Way past us now are songs of Spring;
 None thrive in Autumn’s haze;
      Think of them, ‘
NOT’; their scents imbued:

Scorched-hot by Summer’s gaze.


 In wailful tones, chilled to the bone,
Cicadas sadly moan,
While lambs bleat-out dejected breath
Whose vapor fades to stone.
      Adrift in pallid rivers spent by summers tossed asunder;
Embraced by light-wind’s rhythmic touch,
       Comes softly pliant thunder.     
Crickets dance with plaintive song,
In trebled cadence, ‘soft’;
Robins meld in mournful tunes
From quiet garden-lofts;
         Gathering swallows twitter still, but also gently sigh,

‘Pure notes of grim dismissal’
Part the late September sky:
  And so it goes, and so it goes;
        (September reaps, what September sows…).

Written by Lisa Porter-Grenn, M.D.
(with all apology to Keats)

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