Autumn Is Icumen In

The face of Autumn
flashed at me today –
as orange-ish and green-eyed
as an Irish play, but calmer
than the whiskey-riven
driven drama that might be:

sweet, in fact:
surrounded by a panorama
and a panoply of gently
jarring brownish reddish
green and yellow radiating lines –
beseeching, breaching,

reaching out like veins,
like vines – linking Autumn’s
geniality to unseen climes,
and climbs – inducing
these too-easy rhymes.
There the face was,

smiling like a glamorously
artificial Whitman:
old Walt drained of salt.
Pretty, though.
Autumn is icumen in –
August soon will go.

.