The Philanthropist

He began the fall in wealth,
His arms hanging heavy with green, new-money
Made in spring.
It was the cash that grows on trees:
Easily spent and easily made,
Budded by summer and
Minted by the gold-standard sun.

Investing at Autumn’s asking,
He lays a few leavings in her chill-bone hands
But scatters the rest in splendour
As on her bridal path.
He takes care to appear choosy,
Particular and piecemeal as
A widow with her mite,
Though he is secretly as prodigal as his creator
As wistful as a lover,
Plucking a piece at a time from his boughs
And sending it off,
Hopeful as a love letter,
Yellow as a first rose,
And dancing in girlish spirals
on its way down.

Down, down, down to the banks.
A copper here.
A penny there.
Soon he will rest.
Soon he will lay down his last life
And wait half-dead in winter’s retirement.
But for now,
As a bird feathers her nest,
He lines the road with dew-damp gold,
Lavishing heaven’s riches on earth
For a few more weeks, if not
For Eternity.

Autumn’s Daughter 

I am this season’s child 

     though I am dressed as spring: 

The burning gold of fall is hid

      beneath the flow’rs I bring. 

While storms of thought are whirling, 

     and swirl within my mind,

All you see’s the cloudless blue  

     of clear sky in my eyes.

Dreams and nightmares flutter

    like vibrant, falling leaves, 

 But I doubt you’d ever know  

     for the roses in my cheeks. 

Though my hair’s bright as sunlit May 

     and my lips brim with laughter,

My birth was a November day 

     and I am Autumn’s Daughter.