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The moon last night should've
been enough to win the pot,
to cull a poem from this
declining season,
hovering, bright and low, as it did
just above rooftops.
Though my money would've been
on
the dry rustle of amber cornstalks or
the swirl to earth of one golden
leaf.
A season like this, any number
of
movements towards colder months
should animate poetic thought,
but I always seem to gamble
away the bulk of my capital
before the winning hand is dealt.
I can only hope to have a few
words
left to wager on my ace-high straight
when it hits, to be able to stay in the
game when I realize that, of the
twenty-five similar seasons I've
witnessed, the autumn's been the host
to an unlikely purple,
a somber remnant nestled among
roadside weeds-
A color warm enough to break
anyone's
heart at the approaching winter and
pronounced enough to send the
least inspired poets
scrambling for pen and paper.
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