WINE OF MELANCHOLY…

Gray windy days torn by streaks of greasy frigid rain descending,
The October country draping itself over feelings, thoughts, dreams,
Creating an envelope that encloses, chokes, strangles hope,
Spilling happiness across the stones like blood from a wound fresh,
And there is nothing to be done but curl into a ball and endure the assault;

Now the weather breaks, Indian Summer makes a brief showing,
Sunshine dapples the red, gold, of hardwoods shedding their coats,
Temperatures warm rather than chill the bones, the flesh, and there is a hope
Emerging on the horizon, if only for a short time, a chance encounter,
Dreams flow like a fresh stream through the autumn countryside;

Soon however that promise will be broken by the reality of seasons
Shifting through the passing days and the sky will be leeched of color,
The air filled with a frosty bite that remains like a stray dog seeking comfort,
Then rain will change into snow and ice as trees become barren, furtive,
As sleep encases the earth in a shroud of long standing desperation;

So now we are in that middle ground awaiting the shifts that will come,
A cycle unstoppable, immutable, as long as time flows its’ patterns,
We can weep the passage, or be joyous, or merely accept what is,
For there is naught that the human touch can do about it but await it,
Summer shall autumn be shall then become the tide of winters breath…..