The Rains of Autumn

Dear autumn,

When the rains come

From the west,

They find the windows

In the city,

Perched, like the dandelions,

Of spring, against the red brick,

Where, among the mists rising

On the glass, and the scent

Of tea

In the air

I can sit, and watch

The autumn rains,

Curled, dream-like

In a blanket.

Autumn is the season

Of comfort. The springtide

Reigns in its greenery

Abundant with the buzzing

Of life and swarms

Of cumulous clouds

And hillsides weeping

Of the melted snow.

Summer brought thunder,

Burned sunsets blazed

In vibrant embers, emblazoned

Blue nights with their vespers,

To dream only

Amid the stars.

Winter is the time of sleep,

The cold embedded in the

Symphony of an early dusk,

Painting white the very air and

Guiding frost into each crevice

To hold the dreams in nothing but

Encapsulated sleep.

But here, in autumn, comfort comes

In colors painted from the diminuendo

Of the evening sun. The crisp fragrance

Of the apples on their branches, the leaves

At rest, and the mercy

Of the wind. Here are the senses cast

From memories of day, and

Premonitions of sleep. Here

The morning cold plays its waltz

Against the noontime heat, and here

I can sit, and know that no rains

But those of autumn

Are forged so gently

By the hands of the year

To sing against a bedroom window

And tempt my eyes into a world

Vacant but for comfort

In a warm bed.

Sincerely,

The season

of dreams.