Poems ✍️

On the dusty fields of umber
be no trail nor trace of summer,
October's breath unfolds
a wreath of autumn, solid gold;

smoked shadow, naked branch
leaves like ticker-tape in dance,
trees stripped of their potpourri
makes the lonely artist grieve-

for the many hues and tones
the artists inspiration hones
pictorial skills of imagescape
depicting autumns scent and taste-

of hickory, acorns and rain,
harvests fertile spread of grain.
Hallowed be these precious gifts
till their spirits pass and drift.

Winter bites with lions teeth,
surely Robert Frost would speak,
engaged by Autumn's golden wreath-
till autumns death thus be complete.



©2014-All rights reserved
Frank James Ryan, Jr./FjR

© 2016-All rights reserved
Frank James Ryan Jr. / FjR