Ian Lafontaine Autumn Through a Window

[Autumn Through a Window]

The october gloom hangs over the air, Low-lying fog hovers over the cracked stone With asphalt flowers peeking through, Still reminiscing spring

Autumn clouds dribble down, Poking thumbtack holes in the street pool Stirring dead strands of straw grass with soggy leaves, And dead love with disappointment

June showers washed our sorrows away, And kept them locked away in the clouds We frolicked as they loomed above, Itching to fall back down

The summer sun scorched us with cloying sunlight, And we smiled in the sweet garden grass Raindrops sat like pearls on the flowers, The sunburnt firs were brass A rainbow climbed the bridge of eternity Where does it go?

The earth stands steeped in forgetful rain, Streets dressed in forgotten memories Reflecting colorless clouds, That seep into the sky

The dull dirt is soaked like clay,

Molded by stranger’s hands Soaking up sunshine tea, Brewed in august Spilled over the endless, haunted streets Where does it go?

In September, the sun clung to me, And dashed away, with my stolen smile I longed for the release of fall, And sat there, dreaming patiently

I wiped the coffee-stained page, Of an old friend of mine And I scribbled something down What was it, again?

Autumn leaves of amber gold, Drifted softly through the skies Carrying scents of apple barrels, Through the crisp october pines

The harvest moon melted, Yellow moonlight filled my window pane Black bunting danced to the crow’s soothing songs, And the lamp lights flickered faint I treaded lightly through the road, Dressed as someone else And the strangers gave me candy, For not being myself And sometimes if they liked who I pretended to be, They reached in and they gave me an extra big piece

The pumpkin patch was the last frontier, And stretched beyond the stars I carved a dream into its ridged face, And a candle flame danced inside

Now I trudge to the mahogany bookshelf, which stands a mile high A book of autumn poems, Can only think of dust I look to the pages, And then out the window And then back again Has autumn fled from me? It’s all a burning memory

Cobwebs weaved the moonlit awning, The oak trees stretched their arms Reaching out the touch the stars, But only made it to the moon

Was it all a dream?

The streets buzzed with ghouls and specters, Sipping sweet apple wine in the setting sun And I held marshmallow mugs, One for each of us

I breathed the rosy sunlight, ‘Til midnight conquered earth It clothed the streets in black A soothing darkness, A maddening gray

A maddening gray grazes the sky, As it will in winter But the winter gray is calming, A faithful friend to me The skies will sprinkle earth, With the warmth of fluffy snow A sleepy cabin will dream, I’ll have flour on my hands

Trees will stand, bare and broken, But still with joyful hearts The autumn trees have their hearts crushed, By the october gloom

Tired clouds dribble down, Stirring strands of straw grass with soggy leaves And dead love with disappointment I scribbled something down, In the page Of an old friend of mine What was it, again?

“the stalks of tender grass freshly cut, overgrown in spirit

the rose-gold shine of dusk filters through the apple tree standing like a lonely scarecrow bathing in the honeycrisp sunlight”

The apples have rotted.

The rainfall is unbroken, Cascading from the sky The leaf mash clogs the storm drain, Where the stream goes off to die Raindrops come and go, drifting leaves on a forgotten pool It falls, and ripples, And then it vanishes Where does it all go? They all fall, and ripple And then they’re gone

The present seems so far from me, And the past seems to be so close But we’re always living in the past Maybe the past lives in us

We’re always living in the past, Except the brief flash of time Which goes by so fast, You barely notice See if you can catch it

Moments are just raindrops, Dribbling down, from pine needles Those ripples are those memories, Burning slow with dimming light The smoke is always wandering, Always searching for a purpose But a purpose only comes, To purposeful people Most are forgotten Forgetting is a gift

But the raindrops keep on falling, And their memory quickly dies We’re all little raindrops, falling from the sky And one time down is a lifetime ride

Ian Lafontaine