Autumn's Brush

Sitting in his garden so very still,
Amidst the hyacinth and snapdragon hills;
He ponders the minute, the hour
Of change within the flower.
The change unseen to the minute or hour,
And yet, transforms the flower
Into a wilted image of beauty,
Succumbed to its hidden duty.
And while the summer sun it wanes
To an orchestrated refrain;
The brush of autumn's sun
Prepares its colours, done...
Painting its fiery red and golden brown,
Moving swiftly without a sound,
As if the colours of the inner soul
Pour forth onto the canvas, so cold...
He watches the bee as it frantically flies
In search of the last pollen surprise,
And listens to the lament, a melodious cry
Of geese in their southerly fly.
He feels the coolness of the autumn breeze;
A sign of change that caresses the trees,
Until their leaves, like lovers, lie down;
They waft softly to the ground.
And under a gray and morose sky,
He sits contemplating these things, and why?
Like life, death comes unseen; beyond time,
An abstraction of thought, he opines.
Sitting in his garden so very still,
Amidst the hyacinth and snap dragon hills;
His garden painted with autumn's brush,
And yet he loves what death can touch.

1995 Jim Cain