This season is my inkwell,
I dance in the delight of color,
A festival of falling,
Wafting beauty that rustles,
Endlessly wending on road and path.
I know peace in the tawny waving blades of Midwestern grasses,
Their seed like a billion faeries on the wind,
For I know they will green again in Spring,
Up from the root buried in leaf-nourished ground.
The soft gold of low-angled sun is my wine,
Sweet and sour as it tastes wonderful,
Yet heralds the dark and cold to come soon.
I look to the Sun crawling slowly down the sky,
Every color from gold and red to orange and purple,
I dream of heady days near the Lakes,
The myriad poets I once knew,
And like an acorn falling or a spinning maple seed,
I must write,
It's my nature,
And this is our time,
This season of poets.
By: Daniel A. Stafford