From morning to night,
From dusk to light?
That Thing,
Like a foreboding shadow,
A shadow that brings terror and fright,
Threatening to engulf the sunlight,
That Thing,
Like the cloak of darkness,
That comes with the frosty night,
Hiding everything nice from sight.
That Thing,
Like the screen of gold,
That hides the darkness and pity
Of the dying leaves in autumn,
That Thing.
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| by Suzanne Zahr |
With a rustle,
With a creak,
The wind sweeps through
The shaking shrub.
Swirls playfully,
And worries the tree,
Like a child bouncing on granny’s knee.
A few golden leaves flutter,
And fall to the floor,
Like old grey hairs,
From an old man’s scalp.
The wind tugs off a few more,
And picks them up tenderly,
So that they, the dead,
Can come and dance
Among the folds of Autumn’s lively dresses.
