Poetry

Minnesota

The morning brings a hint of snow
    On this brisk October day.
    And in this still slumbering home,
    A child’s first thoughts are of play.

    And on this brisk October day,
    As I’d dreamt the previous night
    I dress and leave the house asleep
    To see Autumn ripen by morning’s light

    And as I’d dreamt the previous night
    The air’s as clean as the colours on
    Edward Ruscha’s Standard Station
    Housed here in some art salon.

The landscape drips with vibrant tones.
    A child's reckless use of hue
    Here, I pick out points of colour
    That signal Autumn’s debut.

    A child’s reckless use of hue:
    Orange that tastes of warm’d apple
    Cider tinged with spic’d rum
    Yellow that hints of cornbread dappled.

    With this Orange that tastes of warm’d apple
    Mixed there with the Reds sublime,
    The scent of Cayenne pepper on
    Almonds that taste of Autumn time.

Colours tend to run together
    Like the strains of muted arpeggios.
    A Moonlight Sonata played,
    From the Earth this music rose.

    Like the strains of muted arpeggios
    The morning turns to afternoon.
    So much we’ve thought to do
    Our leave we’ll take all too soon.

    As the morning turns to afternoon
    We lunch and pack the day’s events,
    Today a walk through childhood woods
    To take in Autumn’s sights and scents.

The time goes by so very fast;
    We’ve tarried on ‘til evenfall.
    As sunset turns a deep dark plum,
    Hunger tears us from nature’s thrall

    We’ve tarried on ‘til evenfall;
    At home we shelter from the dark.
    We whip up something quick to eat
    Based upon some casual remark.

    At home we shelter from the dark
    And settle in to speak of things.
    From the truth behind God’s creation
    To the value of a diamond ring.

Here we debate what’s in a name,
    Gathered 'round a conversation
    That runs from there to tongues we speak
    And our queer ways of pronunciation.

    Gathered ‘round a conversation
    We linger ‘til the evening wanes.
    Then one by one we take our leave
    And two are all that remain.

    We linger ‘til the evening wanes
    And speak about our separate ways.
    So much has passed we take our time
    And reconcile the balance of our days.

So much more we left to assume,
    Things best said another day.
    Tonight too much consumed
    To leave time for verbal crème brûlée.

    These are things best said another day.
    So finally after too many yawns,
    We head off to our dreams to end
    A moment that threatens to break the dawn.

    Finally after too many yawns,
   We fall asleep ere others awake
  And dream about a hidden lake
Graced by flight of trumpeter swans.