Autumn and the Spanish Steps
Though waiting for the wind so long, the leaves
Know patience, or at least they know no dread.
The autumn wind is patient, too, perceives
Their stoicism wearing orange and red,
October yellow even, brighter in
Their bravery. They have waited from the spring
With air white cleaned by winter and its sin
And right through August’s zeal before they sing
Their falling music figures, more than chords . . .
Arpeggios, descending notes of death.
No microphone or music sheet records
Their swirling down with scarlet, silent breath.
Glissandos spill like light and silence, yet
The leaves are like Keats’ lungs in God’s slow threat.
~ Phillip Whidden