Ordinarily I don’t publish so much poetry at Theoria-press, and instead try to provide mostly essays with an odd poem or sonnet occasionally interspersed among them. But the Muse’s visits have outstripped my ability to keep pace with prose pieces so readers who prefer essays should peruse the archives of this site, which are replete with them. This is more-or-less an actual Petrarchan sonnet so it will not be preceded by my usual exculpatory disclaimer about having departed from the paradigmatic form.
LEAVES fall like phrases from a plume of gold
a pen the wind of Autumn holds in hand,
they make fresh metaphors each place they land
on parchment laid, conveyed in script of old
and shine like little lanterns in the cold
that with earnest hand might withal be fanned
to flame, the light by which I’ll understand
the verses that these Autumn leaves unfold
now I see that I must change my heart
into an eye to see, into an ear
to listen to the songs these leaves impart
their poems discern, their secret teachings hear
and live until my life becomes their art
and my own heart’s songs among the leaves appear
Indeed Max
This helps me with the seasonal blues that I get near Lake Michigan.The cycle of the leaf, right before the permagloom of very harsh winters. Through your writings, I will enter this journey with a bit more ease. A blessing you are.