MY ETERNAL FALL

MY ETERNAL FALL

The medley of the falling leaves,
Dash their tune across the windshield,
The song of bringing in the sheaves,
The corn and pumpkin from the field.
The reds, the yellows, the blazing torches,
The last remnants of summer scorches.
I mark it and I remember it all,
So that I can keep the wonder in me,
Of my eternal fall.

Should I never see another,
Should I not pass these roads again,
I will hold this season like my own lost mother,
Feel her kisses linger on the top of my head,
All I had hoped for and given up for dead,
Will live again in this sacred autumn and its jack o'lantern smile,
I am none the worse for wear despite the weight of miles,
From the depths of my spirit I arise and call,
And feel the timeless echo in my eternal fall.

The medley travels joyous forth in wheelbarrow and apple crate,
Sings a song as clear as blue and gold as heaven's gate.
As across these fertile fields like a madman I do traipse,
I have not fools to suffer nor any breath to waste.
I will travel blindly forward and not once will I stall,
'Til I have crossed the threshold of my eternal fall.

Speak not of frailty, old age or tears.
Speak only of the spirit that brings forth fresh the years.
The medley of the universe, its sweetness enriches,
A rare unseen embroidery of heavenly stitches,
The trees undress ever so slowly for winter,
Their gold and crimson let me always remember,
In the frost of all my latter years when movement slows and stalls,
I will keep these old fond memories of my eternal fall.

Speak not of losses or of sorrow,
Dwell not in the past but on tomorrow.
And a future bright and golden with undiminished hues,
Grab your sad harmonica and learn a happy blues.
And if the future dims and fails,
The wind alas gone from your sails,
Let memory be the light to always be your guide,
Into the golden sunset of this your earthly ride.

So I'll jump prostrate and hearty before this pile of fallen leaves,
Sing my own off key tune of bringing in the sheaves.
Rest in the soft mounds that I am loath to rake,
Remembering when my walking was such a piece of cake.
The reds, the yellows, the blazing torches,
The cool last remnants of summer scorches.
I mark and I remember it all,
So that I can keep the wonder in me,
Of my eternal fall.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED