Before autumn completely turns to winter, I want to capture a moment in time as noted in a prior poem.
Fifteen Seconds of Fame
On a gray October morning
with northwest winds shifting
the contours of the sky,
the east sun emerges
through an aperture in the clouds,
spotlights a yellow drenched elm
for a fleeting few seconds
before the cover closes
and the leaves turn to fool's gold.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
The trees are turning, and I have always wondered about the firs that drop their needles. It wan't until I discovered this was normal for Larches, otherwise known as tamaracks. I wrote about this worry in a previous poem.
Black Sheep
I fretted for the tamaracks, naively.
Patches of yellowed pines
dropping needles on October breezes.
A study of struggle in sepia, wasteland
tableaus within evergreen forests.
Searching for bark beetles or blight,
I thumbed my Field Guide, discovered
the truth of this imagined disaster.
Come autumn these conifers
follow a beat of their own, shedding
bow ties, cummerbunds and all,
much to the family's chagrin.
Marilyn Aschoff Mellor
