In poetry, autumn is approaching death.

The mists of receding memory

part briefly in the shortening days

to feed the fruits of wisdom

to admiring young.

The dark night of winter

is a short blight

before life springs forth

again in proud perfection.

Floral beauty and rich crops

have spread their radiance,

fed their progeny, sown their seeds.

Done their job, returned to earth

to rise again on the day ordained.

In poetry, frail Fido flees this life

to bound in celestial joy

gnawing on eternal

bony succulence.

In poetry we are transported

through words of beauty

to a wondrous place.

Poets wring rays of glory

from the language

of a mundane life.

POETS LIE!

Poets do not go gentle to that good night.

They rage and rage against the the dark

for poets know what poetry does not

that strutted, fretted hour

is their only part.