Autumn Waits

Darkened boughs, gnarled, hoarfrost laced,
punch fists of fury into bile yellow skies,
deeply resenting the lack of spectacle.

What lies beneath, in dense packed earth,
secrets cryogenically sealed in beauteous sleep,
biding the thaw and fall of Winter's tears
till infant limbs rouse, stretch,
and are birthed through damp blackness 
towards Spring's first light.

All at once, in impatience, blooms
a hundred, thousand floral delights,
nodding, blinking in Summer's glare
to delight all senses, long dormant, starved;
swaying to the music of Earth's sweet song,
no raison d'etre beyond just to be 
for eye to behold and hearts to swell 
in inexpressible joy.

Yet just as quick as that brazen burst 
onto Nature's stage to vie, preen, boast 
of their Maker's particular favour,
a sudden chill, and petals spill, 
sharp wind and all glory tumbles 
into infamy and are forever gone.
But it is Autumn that waits, all this while
knitting in her wombs without flare or fame
a whole new generation to perpetuate her name.
Not hers the boast 
of magical tender green from wintry black,
nor of the panache of hues, or flagrant scents.
But seeds, kernels and fruits that bear
the sweet, bittersweet stories of heroic waiting.
Their days in the sun were long begun
in the endless moments of a darker brooding.

And now, neath a blazing mid-August moon,
gathering into her bosom her brood of honeyed pods,
juicy pommes of every shape,
gourds from jade to gold to ripe ruby garnet,
She sighs, content at last,
vindicated, and sated sufficiently in spirit 
to face yet again the fall from grace,
when she must shed all that she is,
stripped and laid bare, barren to the world,
and dwell for another season 
in the ignominy of fruitless days.