Heroic
The autumn brings the woods to life at last,
The life of splendor made of God and light,
The light and colors dreamed of though more vast
Than men imagine even in a rite
Of Orthodox and patriarchal sheen
Of silk, embroidery. The scarlet leaves
Compete with sheets of gold on stems between
The opals. A morning sunlight heaves
Itself against the melting breast of frost
As maples make their magic, sweetness, deep
From roots and in the heart of Pentecost.
Death thought that it had conquered. It was sleep,
Though, only. Summer’s background greens (they so
Built up of yawn) are sacrificed. Their breath
Becomes the mists which try to veil the glow
Of fall. They lapse against bright death.
This death is life transformed to livid charm
That sorcery has sourced from autumn’s harm.
~ Phillip Whidden