The World in Autumn, a Poem


During Those Summers

My Mother Spent Her Afternoons with Her Foot on the Pedal of that Sewing Machine

I’d Picked Up Those Patchwork Quilts Made of Clouds and Cicada Calls After My Naps

The Sopranos of the Floral Prints, the Altos of the Square Patterns

Most of the Times, I’d Just, Sat and Stared, in Silence

Then, the Gentle Breeze Came

not my animation…

And Brought My Mother’s Beautiful Shadow Toward Me

The Aromatic Scents of the Roses

Waking Up Those Memories in Dreams

The Autumn is Waited on Long

The Draperies of the Oceans, Flowed for the Entire Summer

Slowly Turned into the Colors of the Dusk

what the autumn looks like, NOT my photograph…

And Now, My Mother Had, Stepped on the Pedals of the Sewing Machines Made of the Dusk

And Weaved Up the Birds Flying Home for Me to See

(the Mysterious, the Eternal, the Unnamed)

The World of the Autumn is Now, Half-Emptied

Then, the Deep Caves Only Held the Resonances

Of the Cicada Calls

Crying so Very Loudly, into the Darkness

There’s this vivid imagery that this poet had given us, you feel that sense of autumn, how everything’s cooling down, life’s slowed down too, with that sense of leisure now…


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