An Autumn Afternoon
Futilely, I search
for the perfect words
to captures this splendor,
which I am momentarily
permitted to gaze upon.
This vista will not last.
Perhaps for a few weeks,
but most likely
in a matter of days,
it will be irrevocably changed.
It seems, to me,
that either Frost or Thoreau or Longfellow
or some other brilliant poet,
who has already walked this way,
and knows these hills
better than I ever shall,
should have already written
the ideal verse;
but their words elude me.
It would not suffice to speak of color:
golden hues, blazing bronzes, or shimmering grays
do not in and of themselves
express the glorious banquet
which God has laid out for me,
on this otherwise ordinary day.
If they write of the rolling landscape
permanently adored with evergreens,
which soften the bare birches,
whom have already surrendered
their gown of leaves
to the autumn,
but fail to mention the winding,
still waters that
lead to the sea,
and bring both friend and family
to the small white house,
then they have not
captured what I see.
They cannot simply speak
of an endless sky
with voluminous clouds
which seem to not only
engulf the mountains and trees and rivers;
but also engulf me.
Alas,
I find no one else words
can adequately reflect this moment,
for this moment is only mine.
Thus deeply I inhale
the crisp, cool air,
which is perfumed
by wood fires,
and looking past the
brilliant color,
majestic trees,
and endless skies,
I reflect upon the Creator,
of this beauty,
and need no other words.
~ Cristina Jill Mosqueda ~
