The Autumn light reflects in shadowed gold,
and scarlet dance of leaf entwined,
unfolding through the burnished branch and twig;
a dreaming into Winter’s chilling mind.
It’s like a mirror image of my wounded soul,
a minuet of sorrow thus divined,
which falls in scattered dance, delivered hurts;
a crumpled drift of what must surely die.
In melancholy moments all is written slow,
reminder of the change which Life demands,
and how the heart will hear the season’s song;
the notes which play on fingers of the past.