Painting: Charles Porter (1847-1923)
November
by Susan E. Oringel
With each shower of leaves, I cursed
the spendthrift trees who tossed
their coins away to any old wind.
Mourned the bright riot,
summer’s dahlias, red
and phosphorescent suns.
Now a kind of quiet comes,
a slow, hard wind
shivering sober branches,
a forest furred in gray and brown,
from where I stand. A faded red tractor
moves against rows of gold,
reducing stalks to rubble,
bent, knit against earth.
The barren trees
reveal what leaves once screened:
a stone farmhouse, scrolled smoke rising,
the chessboard of a young orchard,
apple saplings that open to a field
of sculpture: two white pillars,
one red X
and a twisted, seamless loop.
The first layer has been stripped.
Time to turn inside.
2 Comments
Even though the fall is very different in Florida my internal rhythms have turned me inside..a time to practice, practice, practice what I’ve stored until time for the new that will come with spring.
Thank you Sue.
.Lovely comment: thanks. Sue
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