Consecration
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
The autumn is the most religious time
Of seasons. Fall is when we do not strain
To feel the specter’s spectre’s breath. A wan green slime
Across a summer pond is like a stain
On soul. The same pond covered thin with ice
In winter does not call our piths to spirit prayer.
The spring is more a promise, an advice.
The autumn shouts out holiness, a blare
Of sacred colors where there once was green
Unendingly almost. A boredom fell
Across that landscape as a fate serene
Too like a tongueless country church’s bell.
The autumn only with Elijah hues
Can fulminate prophetic hallowed views.
~ Phillip Whidden