Under the Autumn Tree

Weeks of writing about friends passed and dreamtime forests will have convinced some that my tastes are decidedly maudlin. While it is not untrue that much of my collection is concerned with rather dark and disturbing texts, it is only because this style of text lends itself to my particular area of collection. Compare, if you will, a coin collector: If a large number of his coins are dirtied and old, it is only because so often all that remains of a shining golden history is a few blackened circles from years gone by. This piece is a new one, and as such both common and shining. It is as relevant to my collection as any sum of treasured horrors.

Under the Autumn Trees

By T

"For Elizabeth"

We sat, we two, beneath the trees
And treasured us that day.
The midday sun turned into dusk,
And stole the heat of May.
All around us fattened bees,
Purchased on dying flowers,
And in her arms the twilight minutes,
Transformed to twilight hours.

The crisp brown leaves fall all around,
Twirling slowly in the breeze.
The sun dies brilliant, shining, bright,
And sets our hearts at ease.
A leaf alights upon the ground,
To rest in ochre light.
Another falls now through the sky,
Twisting with delight.

The sun goes down below the hill,
To rise again tomorrow.
She sleeps, an angel on my shoulder,
To take away my sorrow.
I give myself this moment still,
A taste of longed for bliss.
I rest my eyes, and ask myself,
What could compare to this?

Love is a wonderful thing, so much more powerful than fear or hate. Only in love can happiness be seized, and only in love wrenched away can fear wield any power. The author of this particular piece requested his name was not mentioned, and perhaps we can see why: Love is always a public secret, one which everyone can see but very rarely understood. I do not believe that naming the author could allow even one person to understand, truly, the depth of love the author felt. To put a name to the lover is to rob him of the personal, to turn his love into something shallowly shared by all. Better to allow him his privacy, to let his love be his own, but allow his words to be read and understood by all.

My collection is filled with thorns, so often obscuring the sunlight. I can only look with love upon the few roses the thorns bring with them, and try to protect them from the spikes that surround them.