Tuesday

I'm not a poet, and like to prove it on occasion.

The sun rises gradually in secret,
hidden behind an Autumn sky that is livid in color.
The sky seems to resurrect the dead leaves as it backlights them,
bringing into beautiful contrast their deep reds, oranges, and browns.
As though breathing upon them, the breeze sings its song,
then sings a duet with the rain that falls for several verses.
The air is cold, and the melody promises Winter's imminent arrival.
Like Achilles and his Myrmidons, it approaches
with a promise of finality for the year almost passed.