by Ethan Holmes
Unseen, unheard in the stillness of a black October night,
I, tucked deep within the confines of my dream-scattered sleep.
Someone or something ran amuck through the mountains,
Wild and frenzied, dashing here and there,
Flitting and darting there and here,
Dozens of hues and colors at the tip of their brush,
Frantic splashing and sploshing as though chased by another with same intent,
Clambering across cold-muted creeks, up and down frost-kissed hills,
Leaving those not blessed with the myriad orange, red and gold,
To lie upon the ground and water,
To return again for yet another try, another season.
You worked your palette well, darting about touching this one and not that,
Leaving one green to remind me of summer just passed,
Setting another to fiery red, to foretell Winter tapping my door.
Let it set awhile for me to marvel on a crystal cold morn,
To ponder the circle of life in all nature,
The coming and going of things.
Then, unrestrained because you cannot help it,
blow it about with the same frenzy,
Whirl and twirl your glee in the winds of change,
Fling it about, strip it clean, throw it all down.
You can start again next year, the same leaves restored.
Ethan Holmes is the author of Water, a fictional novel about human survivability against the specter of no potable water.
Ethan Holmes is the author of five more books and lives in northern Arizona.