We like to end our newsletter with little gifts of creativity.  This week we were on the search for poems about Autumn and received several lovely suggestions, including this first from local poet Laurie Allmann.  We hope you enjoy them.


WHY THE WILD BIRD SINGSBy Laurie Allmann


 Heavy with seed,
big bluestem and Indian grass are nodding,
the autumn prairie lit with goldenrod,
warblers flitting in the treetops near
the pond, where a wood duck
glides along the ragged margin
with her three grown youngIt could be past the time for singing,
–mating season come and gone,
one by one the morning chorus voices
dropping off—and yet the wren sings,
pouring notes into the open air
like the waters of
a rainy season spring,
like nothing but its own self,
his beak thrown wide,
and body all atremble
Never too late
to court the day 

Photo Credit: Tapio Haaja on unsplash.comSunset
   — Rainier Maria Rilke

Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors
which it passes to a row of ancient trees.
You look, and soon these two worlds both leave you
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth.

leaving you, not really belonging to either,
not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,
not so unswervingly given to the eternal as that thing
that turns to a star each night and climbs–

leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads)
your own life, timid and standing high and growing,
so that, sometimes blocked in, sometimes reaching out,
one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star

Photo Credit: Rin Porter on unsplash.comAutumn


Autumn

   —  Emily Dickinson

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.