Autumn
At the dizzy end of Fall
Disoriented. Winter coat, summer shoes
Leaves wet in heavy piles, the smell
Your shawls retreived from plastic
Memories preserved in aspic
Quiet streets, the afternoon
Christmas lights and cloudless skies
I finger spines of all the books I will not give
Wind whispers in the branches, who and who?
Did you leave her? Did she leave you?
from Sold and Bartered
Thematically related Post:
And as Autumn rolls around again, so does this poem, reblogged at re-linked…
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Ali Abbas 
Pretty, even in the melancholy of his loss. Thank you for sharing that, Ali. It’s really looking like autumn, appropriately, here, too. I’ve been cooking up a piece of seasonal written prose of some sort, if only in my mind.
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I wonder if authors or writing syles could be classified by seasons? If we think of Autumn as fat with the fruits of summer, but mutable and leaning into decay, are some authors just permanently autumnal? Or do you see the seasons affecting the style and content of what you write? Are stories more hopeful and energetic when written or conceived in spring; or are you someone whose writing exudes “spring-ness”?
Perhaps trivially, despite the unusual seaonal patterns in Game of Thrones there is the constant underlying theme — winter is coming.
Take the seasonal prose out of your mind and onto the page please Leigh.
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