Mind, body, spirit—

three travelers sharing the same road,

yet their footsteps rarely align.

The mind races ahead,

hungry for answers,

while the body lingers,

tethered to earth’s gravity.

The spirit waits,

a quiet flame,

flickering with the rhythm of breath.

We call for balance,

stretch toward harmony,

but the tides of life pull unevenly.

Equilibrium comes—

a fleeting embrace,

a moment of still water—

then it slips,

a shadow swallowed by the sun.

We are impermanent beings

chasing an impermanent goal.

To align mind, body, and spirit

is to catch the wind in our hands,

knowing it cannot be held,

only felt,

only cherished before it moves on.

Life, death, rebirth—

these are not bookends of existence,

but the pulse of every moment.

In each breath,

something begins, something ends,

something rises again.

We do not walk a straight line.

We ride each moment’s wave,

never fixed,

forever becoming.

#poem #impermanence #mindbodyspirit 

Nine shadows burst from the treeline,
muscles coiled,
hooves shattering the frozen earth.
They race as if winter itself has awakened them,
a blur of sinew and breath,
carving trails through the unbroken white.

At the edge of the field, they pause—
bodies poised in quiet elegance,
every motion a hymn of grace.
Their dark eyes hold the edge of morning,
attuned to what is seen and unseen,
the whisper of wind,
the weight of snow,
the tremble of distant branches.

The sun spills across the snow,
light fracturing into gold and shadow.
Nine deer, still as prayer,
woven into the stillness of December,
as if they, too, marvel at the purity of the day’s first breath.

poem #poetry #deer #December #winter #snow

Ladies and gentlemen, gather round,
and let me introduce Tom—
no ordinary turkey,
no run-of-the-mill, feathered, giblet-bearing fowl.
This is Tom Esquire,
graduate of Stanford and Harvard Law,
the feathered prodigy of the barnyard.

With a briefcase tucked under his wing
and a Constitution in his beak,
Tom waddles into courtrooms,
declaring, “Turkeys of America, unite!
The age of oppression ends today!”

His opening statement is legendary:
“We are more than drumsticks,
more than gravy-laden centerpieces.
We are turkeys.
And we have rights.”

He files lawsuits faster than you can baste.
Butterball? Subpoenaed.
Perdue? Summoned.
The National Turkey Federation?
He’s got them sweating like a bird in November.

And when Tom takes the stand,
he ruffles feathers:
“Every November, millions of us are stuffed
without consent!
We are brined, buttered, and broiled—
and for what? Tradition?
No justice, no peas!”

The turkey farmers howl in protest.
“Turkeys can’t sue!
You don’t even have opposable thumbs!”
But Tom retorts,
“Neither do you when holding gravy boats!”

Tom drafts legislation—
“The Turkey Bill of Rights,”
delivered to Congress
with a flourish of his tail feathers.
“From this day forward,” he proclaims,
“turkeys shall no longer be stuffed
against their will,
shipped in tiny crates,
or forced to listen to holiday music in slaughterhouses!”

The Farmers Association panics.
Processors quake in their aprons.
They send lawyers—
sharp-suited foxes armed with contracts,
but Tom dismantles their arguments
with the precision of a scalpel.

And so it comes to this:
a Congressional hearing.
Tom stands proud, flanked by his flock,
turkeys of every shape and size.
“We demand reparations for our forebears—
and a holiday dedicated to us,
featuring tofu loafs and cranberry juice boxes!”

Some Congressmen laugh.
Others take notes.
The room grows tense as Tom delivers
his closing argument:
“Turkeys are more than meat;
we’re America’s moral compass.
Who else volunteers every year
to teach gratitude?”

When the gavel falls, the world waits.
Tom returns to the farm, victorious,
a hero to poults everywhere.
He struts past the henhouse,
past the coop, past the cornfield,
and whispers to his comrades:
“Let’s talk turkey.”

And they do—
over a nice plate of mashed potatoes,
hold the gravy.

Skunks in the Meadow
By Don Iannone

In the meadow behind our house,
Mom and Dad Skunk, and a baby,
Parents protective,
Infant ever open,
The possibilities of life in the field behind us.

In black and white,
And everything in between,
The beauty of birth and youth,
And yes, skunks in the meadow,
Opens our eyes to the possibility of everything.

We watch from the fence,
Wishing we were close up,
But our binoculars bring them near,
Magnifying the importance,
Of what we see unfolding.

They waddle through the tall grass,
A parade of stripes,
Bold against the green,
Their presence a quiet testament,
To the cycle of life unfolding,
Right before our eyes.

We watch, transfixed,
As the baby stumbles,
Curious and unafraid,
A new life exploring,
The vast world of the meadow,
With its hidden wonders and dangers.

The air is filled with the scent,
Of wildflowers and earth,
And the faint, distinctive musk,
Of our striped neighbors,
A reminder of the delicate balance,
Between beauty and caution.

In their world,
We see reflections of our own,
The protective embrace of parents,
The uncharted journey of youth,
The unspoken promise,
That life, in all its forms,
Holds boundless possibilities.

The meadow behind our house,
A sanctuary of simple truths,
Reminds us daily,
That even in black and white,
There is a spectrum of life,
Vivid, emotive, and free.

I feel special,
Because I am a part of nature,
Connected to this dance of life,
Realizing how special everything is,
In the meadow, in our hearts,
In the ever-present possibility of everything.

The air shimmered, a wavering mirage,

Heatwaves rippling through the afternoon,

A furnace blast, relentless and fierce.

Shadows retreating, thin as whispers,

Concrete burning underfoot,

Even the cicadas silenced, stunned by the blaze.

Mirrors of light, cruel and blinding,

Sky a bleached canvas, stark and hollow,

Leaves curling, thirsting, brittle to touch.

Breath searing, every inhalation a shock,

Sweat beads forming, reluctant to cool,

The sun an unyielding overlord, unsparing in its gaze.

Silent streets, deserted, still,

Nature hiding, subdued by the glare,

This unexpected inferno, a summer’s merciless grip.

In the hush of a May morning,
I wander through the murmurs of a forgotten meadow,
where time weaves through the tall grass,
and the stones speak softly of the past.

Old, weathered headstones, stoic and silent,
etched with names that once danced upon the lips of loved ones,
now cradled in the earth’s enfold,
their stories carried on the wings of the wind.

The sun, a gentle brush upon the horizon,
paints shadows long and memories vivid,
as I trace the lines of history with my fingertips,
each mark a testament to sacrifice and valor.

Here lies a soldier of the Civil War,
his name a faint echo, his deeds etched deep,
the moss clings to his epitaph,
a guardian of his tale, a silent testament to his courage.

Nearby, a marker from the Great War,
its marble face kissed by countless seasons,
the letters worn, yet proud,
each one a pulse of the past, a beat of bravery.

And there, a soldier from the Second World War,
his headstone stark and simple,
standing in quiet dignity,
a sentinel of remembrance amidst the rustling leaves.

I pause at a grave adorned with a verse,
a fragment of Walt Whitman’s soul,
etched into the stone, a bridge to the eternal,
“O Captain! my Captain!” murmurs through the air,
each word a thread, binding the present to the past.

The breeze carries the scent of wildflowers,
a delicate bouquet of memory and mourning,
as I stand in reverent silence,
the weight of history pressing gently upon my heart.

In this sacred space, where the past breathes still,
I find a connection to those who came before,
a shared humanity, a collective memory,
etched in stone, held in the quiet enfold of the countryside.

On this Memorial Day, in this ancient, rural resting place,
I honor their lives, their sacrifices,
and in the echo of Whitman’s words, I feel the pulse of time,
a reminder that their legacy endures,
woven into the very fabric of this land,
forever remembered, forever revered.

The subway station heaves with muffled noise,
The shuffle of countless feet against the grime,
I am aware of unfounded disdain,
Coursing between strangers in the city’s bowels.

The ancient fluorescents blink in yellow strobe,
Casting faint light on self-assuring cries and whispers,
Where breathy sighs of pity mingle with laughter
That hides like vermin in the concrete seams.

The old man’s stare, bitter, unwavering,
Follows the young man with a foreign tongue,
Each syllable grating on his weary ears,
Each word a puncture in his sense of self.

The tracks beneath pulsate with distant rhythm,
An electric hum heralding trains,
And all around, unseen but felt,
Silent inner pleas for the world to be as I see it and want it to be.

The young man’s cap is tilted with casual ease,
His eyes bright, unguarded, full of tomorrow,
While the old man’s grip tightens on his cane,
Knuckles white with a lifetime’s anger.

And then, a sudden scream and rush,
The young man trips, stumbles, and falls,
A quick descent into the void below,
His body meets the rails with a sickening thud.

The old man flinches, a breath caught in his throat,
The echoes of horror ripple through the crowd,
The subway station halts, a silence heavy,
As the train screeches, too late to stop.

The old man’s eyes, now wide with shock,
No longer see the young man’s accent,
Only the lifeless form where he once stood,
The shadowed truth beneath all their words.

The strangers around draw closer,
Their differences momentarily blurred,
In the shared reality of what they’ve witnessed,
A grim reminder of fleeting, fragile life.

The old man turns away, his heart a twisted knot,
The anger replaced with a somber void,
The self-assurance crumbles like brittle stone,

In shadowed halls, I’ve followed the quiet threads of power,  
Charting each muffled cry, its subtle sway in time, 
Silently navigating the veiled histories held in their gaze.  

Indeed, the world is more than a stage for veiled hands,  
And the moon a silent sentinel of their secret rites, 
In hidden rooms, the sacred vow shifts to silent betrayal.  

I turn not to the relics of old secrets worn thin,  
Nor seek the stark truths in ruins of ancient bonds.  
Shadows are draped like promises, speaking of deeper dawns.  

I’ve roamed the archives under the quiet moon’s watch,  
Untangling the snarled webs of alliances that bind.  
Yet, they hold fast.  

Sometimes, I long for the veils to be drawn back completely.  
In the quiet corridors, triumphs speak their tales;  
The secret heart pulses with the rhythms of old truths.  

Old boat, time-worn path,
Dolphins glide through emerald waves,
Leaping side by side—
Their joyous dance in the mist,
Paints the sea with morning bliss.

In shadowed halls, I’ve followed the quiet threads of power,  
Charting each muffled cry, its subtle sway in time, 
Silently navigating the veiled histories held in their gaze.  

Indeed, the world is more than a stage for veiled hands,  
And the moon a silent sentinel of their secret rites, 
In hidden rooms, the sacred vow shifts to silent betrayal.  

I turn not to the relics of old secrets worn thin,  
Nor seek the stark truths in ruins of ancient bonds.  
Shadows are draped like promises, speaking of deeper dawns.  

I’ve roamed the archives under the quiet moon’s watch,  
Untangling the snarled webs of alliances that bind.  
Yet, they hold fast.  

Sometimes, I long for the veils to be drawn back completely.  
In the quiet corridors, triumphs speak their tales;  
The secret heart pulses with the rhythms of old truths.  

Lost upon the waves,
Ship splinters ‘neath storm’s fury,
Sky merges with sea.
Island sands embrace my plight—
Hope blooms in the heart of night.

In the outskirts, where whispers weave through the wind, there stands a farmhouse, its timbers groaning with secrets, a silhouette etched against the horizon’s fading light. Once, it was alive, pulsing with the beat of day-to-day, but now, it’s shrouded in a cloak of solitude, walls lined with the echoes of laughter long gone, rooms filled with the heavy air of stories untold. The woman who lived there, a mystery, a shadow, wandered its halls like a ghost, her presence barely felt but in the gentle ivory caress of piano keys that floated through the night, a sorrowful symphony played to an audience of moon and stars. Folks in town, they gossiped, cruel jests hidden behind closed doors, labeling her a recluse, a witch, a specter of the past, never understanding the weight of loneliness she carried, a burden that bent her shoulders and dulled her eyes. She found peace in her music, notes rising and falling, like the breaths she drew, deep and resonant, a language only she and the night could comprehend. The farmhouse, with its peeling paint and creaking floors, stood as a testament to her existence, its decay mirroring the abandonment she felt, doors no longer opening to welcome guests, windows looking out with a yearning for the world. Inside, the piano waited, its keys now silent, dust gathering like a blanket, a comfort in the stillness, each particle a memory, a moment frozen in time. And so, the house remains, a relic of loneliness, a monument to the misunderstood, its story floating with the wind, carried through the fields, a melody played on the strings of time, eternal, echoing, alone.

Solar-Lunar Wonder Under the broad sweep of endless sky, In that rare and hallowed moment When the moon, in audacious stealth, Edges before the sun, A quietude descends, profound and deep. The air, thick with anticipation, Holds its breath; The earth, in its tireless orbit, Pauses—in reverence To the grandeur to which we all belong. This spectacle, this dance of light and shadow, Where the day is night and the sun is dark, Unveils the universe’s unfathomable mystery, A reminder of our fleeting passage In the boundless march of time. As the corona flares, A crown of light, ethereal and untouchable, Encircles the shadowed moon— A garnered glimpse into the sun’s hidden majesty. In this moment, we are but specks, Yet infinitely connected to the cosmic ballet. This eclipse, eagerly awaited, a miracle witnessed, Serves not just as a meeting of celestial bodies, But as a bridge across the void, Linking heart to heart, soul to soul, To the very essence of existence itself. In awe, we stand, Observers of the universe’s embrace, Witnesses to the endless dance Of light and shadow, Of time and space, And the quiet, enduring marvel That is life, in its myriad forms and fleeting beauty.

An Elegy for a Fallen Bridge: Baltimore’s Night of Tragedy As night draped its cloak over Baltimore’s sleeping form, A cargo ship, the MV Dali, sailed to greet the dawn. From the bustling harbor shores it had slipped away, Bearing goods for far-off lands, under the sky’s dark sway. Two pilots steered the lumbering vessel, ‘cross the tranquil bay, But fate, in ever sly and cunning ways, had its plans to prey. At the early hour of 1:24 AM, darkness claimed the skies, And in its thick, velvety folds, brought forth a bitter surprise. The ship, a giant of Herculean steel, veered off its path, Toward the towering bridge ahead, sparking disaster’s wrath. “Mayday, mayday,” the speakers cried, a disparate plea, But for those on the bridge and ship, a dire prophecy. Tragedy loomed in the wink of an eye caught sleeping, Words never uttered, not knowing secrets silence was keeping, Lights flickered on the Dali’s deck, a fleeting dance in the night, Then suddenly, darkness sucked away every bit of its light. The anchors plunged, a desperate bid, to halt the grim advance, Yet destiny would not be swayed, nor give a second chance. With a thunderous roar, Francis Scott Key succumbed to fate, A goliath of steel and concrete, now bowed beneath its weight. Cars lay still, abandoned quickly, as time itself took flight, The bridge, once a noble span, befallen by this disastrous plight. A silent knell for the crumbled structure, for lives disrupted, dreams unmet, A once proud path now lay broken, in a night the stars will never forget. A crash so violent, the city startled awake, to the bridge’s final sigh, And heroes clad in courage’s hue, under the somber smoke-filled sky, Rushed forth daring the treacherous depths, to challenge death’s cold hand, To find the lost, the helpless, the waiting, hopefully bring them back to land. The divers dove, a unity in purpose and in hope, While above them the Coast Guard kept its vigil, with broadened scope. A search not just for flesh and bone, but for the spirit’s flame, A relentless quest, in the heart of night, for those they vowed to claim. In the hush that followed, silence reigned, a solemn, eerie guest, Bearing witness to the tragedy, where the bridge had failed its test. Now a monument to human reach, and the fallibility of our plans, It stands a somber guardian of the night when time slipped through our hands. Amidst the whispers of the night and the Pleiades’ silent gaze, The brave and the free, once united on this span, now part ways. As the star-spangled banner, in solemn darkness, does yet wave, Over the land of the free, home of the brave, and a bridge’s grave.

In a verdant meadow expanse,
A lone dandelion stands,
Trading golden crown
For a halo of fragile wisps.
Sun’s affection now distant,
Yet in its fragile state,
An ethereal beauty emerges,
An elder amidst fleeting youth.
Holding a thousand dreams,
Awaiting the gust’s embrace,
Whispered tales ready to be shared,
With an ever-changing world.
Silent beacon it remains,
Testament to resilience and phases,
Embracing life’s ebb and flow,
In the dance of time and change.

In lands where words like rivers flow, beneath the moon’s serene, soft glow, A scribe with pen in steady grasp, captures life’s essence, breath in clasp. Each line breathes life, each word a beat, where hearts and artistry meet, Within this dance, where lines converge, syllables and dreams emerge. Upon the page, a dream’s soft march, where truth and fancy blend and arch, A world from deepest musings drawn, where words and wisdom dawn. Here, poetry unlocks the soul, freeing minds, making broken whole, In every line, a universe, in syllables, life converses. So raise our cups, filled with the ink, to poets who dare to think, Whose words can heal, can tear, can bind, echoing through the mind. In every verse, a life, a tale, in poetic seas we sail, Where lines hold sway, in night or day, guiding us on our way.

Surviving in the Post-Truth World In the realm of post-truth and misinformation, We find ourselves adrift on a turbulent sea, Deceit’s waves rise, falsehoods obscure the sun, Facts, like elusive phantoms, fade from view. This treacherous current, a serpent coiled, Around the pillars of reason, constricts our grasp, Threatening to engulf our collective thought, As we navigate murky waters of manipulation. The lighthouse of objective reality stands, Obscured by the fog of deceit, doubt’s embrace, Sirens of disinformation sing beguiling songs, In this distorted reflection of truth, we dwell. We, the sailors of the digital age, must wield, The compass of critical thought to chart, A course toward distant shores of clarity, Across this tempestuous sea of ambiguity.

In the heart of the nursing home where old folks stay, Lived Erasmus, a man twinkling in twilight’s array. With a glimmer that danced in his mischievous eyes, He concocted a plan to bring great surprise. Not a prankster by trade, but a jester at heart, He perfected an art that set him apart. With a silent approach, undetected, unseen, He’d let loose a cloud, where he once had been. The residents gathered, unknowing, at ease, Till the air filled with a curious breeze. A stench so strong, it could wilt a rose, They clutched at their noses and squinted their toes. “Who could it be?” they wondered, looking around, Silent but Deadly Erasmus made not a sound. Except for a giggle, suppressed and discreet, Erasmus, now hiding, pretending to be sweet. The ladies, most prim, with their hankies out, Fluttered and fussed an occasional shout, “It’s Erasmus again!” with a laugh and a tease, Pointing at him, the one cutting the cheese. Though the air was quite foul, the laughter was sweet, As they chased down the halls on their slippered feet. For in every life, a little fun must be had, Even if it’s a bit smelly, a bit bold, a tad mad. So remember dear Erasmus, with his silent decree, Who taught us to laugh, letting spirits run free. For in the end, it’s the joy that we spread, That lights up our days, ’til we’re finally in bed. And so, in this home where the old folks stay, The legend of Erasmus lingers to this day. A reminder to all, that life’s for the living, With each silent gift that keeps on giving.

In the stillness of the heart, a tropical storm awakens,
Stirred by a caress, rebellious senses unfurl.
With passion’s penetrating embrace, liberation is found—
A moment of bliss, where souls find peace.
Our intoxicating union sends cries into the sky.

Whispers of pine, aged,
Carved by hands of bygone days.
Strings hum with life’s breath,
Each note a story, tender—
Echoes of eternity.

Spring, summer, autumn, winter, Nature’s endless march. Each a cherished visitor. With grace and determination, one by one each takes its turn on stage. Seeds, long buried, know their time to release next generations of flowers, grasses, trees, all else. Each a phoenix in repose. Deeply programmed to unfold. Blossoming young sprouts— break free from earth’s clutches, under ever-changing skies. Suddenly, a grand symphony erupts. Rapturous melodies released. The meadow basks in warm sunlight, where perky wildflowers seduce the bees. Luring them deep into their folds. With life’s nectar on their feet, they fly off, sharing their fertile riches. Summer’s end, a clarion’s call to autumn. No need for mourning— the leaves set themselves free. Unabashedly beautiful, they tumble ceremoniously to the ground. Frost arrives, a masterful artist, draping a shimmering veil over land and wood, under the cool whisper of winter’s breath. Nights grow longer, while days slumber in long-awaited rest. Behind the closed curtain, silent dormancy arrives, as life withdraws into hidden chambers– Till once again, they hear thaw’s gentle call to awaken.

Shooting Star in Desert Sky Vast dome of night sky, Spark slices through dark, fleeting— Desert awash in light. In silence, ancient secrets, Shadows yield to the bright dance.

In a church where hymns soar high and free,
A mouse embarked on a daring spree,
Up the stockinged leg, it did dare,
Past the congregation’s wide-eyed stare.

The preacher’s wife felt a tickle, then a squirm,
Her face turned red, as it rounded a turn,
She jiggled and wiggled trying not to shout,
As the mouse explored, in and out, and about.

“Dear Lord,” she prayed, “keep my composure tight,”
While the mouse ascended in silent flight,
A sermon on chastity, unintended yet wise,
Unfolds with a mouse, in disguise.

The congregation gasped, chuckled, then roared,
As the mouse’s adventure became church folklore,
A tale of a climb, so bold and so high,
A mouse and a lady, under God’s watchful eye.

That overlooked, we become,
Tracks us down, like a hungry wolf,
Eventually catching up, devours us,
Leaving nothing, but itself.

That forgotten, returns,
Haunting us, night and day,
When least suspected, it floods back,
Taking with it, all we seek to protect.

That which we pretend to be,
engraves its name upon us,
for all to see what we have become,
and what we are no longer.

And so turns the karmic wheel,
around and around,
until at last,
its work with us is done.

Autumn’s Clarion Call
By Don Iannone

In October’s chill embrace,
Latter years bring wisdom’s grace,
A season of change, a time to face
The memories that we hold in place.

The trees, they don their golden hue,
A fiery blaze that fills the view,
The breeze carries scents of harvest and decay,
As nature’s cycle starts to sway.

The days grow shorter, nights grow long,
The stars appear, a twinkling throng,
The moon, a silver crescent smile,
A beacon in the autumn mile.

The air is crisp, the winds do howl,
A chill that bites, a story to be told,
Of seasons passed, of memories made,
In October’s chill, our hearts are playedThe leaves, they fall, a rustling sea,
A carpet of gold, a sight to see,
The trees, they stand, a test of time,
A reminder of nature’s rhyme.

In the hush of dawn, the world awakes
Upon Amelia’s shores, a wonder takes shape
As restless waves greet the shimmering sky
I walk the beach, where land and sea comply.

The salty air enwraps my weary frame
As footsteps mark the sand, leaving a humble claim
Each grain beneath my toes, a story untold
Whispering secrets the ocean has bestowed.

The sun, a gentle conqueror, ascends with grace
Painting hues of gold upon the water’s face
Muted pinks and purples, a soft embrace
Guiding my steps, as time and worries erase.

Sea oats sway in rhythm, dancing with the breeze
Palm trees wave, offering solace and ease
Seagulls serenade, their cries echoing free
Nature’s symphony weaving harmony.

With every stride, I inhale serenity’s potion
The world, for this moment, in perfect notion
The rising sun ignites a fire within
A sense of wonder, where dreams begin.

Footprints, like echoes, fade behind me
As if erasing the past, setting my spirit free
With untamed thoughts carried on the tide
I walk the beach, in search of what resides.

For in the pristine morning, nature bestows
Gifts of reflection and solace, it shows
A gentle reminder of life’s grand design
The beauty in simplicity, timeless and divine.

So let the sunrise walk upon this shore
Guide you to treasures you’ve yet to explore
As Amelia beckons, in whispers and delight
Embrace the dawn, and let your soul take flight.

In realms of turmoil, where chaos takes its flight,
Where shadows dance, and darkness claims its might,
It is easy to be brave from a safe distance,
To observe the battles fought without resistance.

From lofty towers, from behind walls high,
One can taste the thrill, untouched by battle nigh,
For in the glow of comfort and tranquil air,
Fear finds no passage; courage finds no snare.

Yet, oh, how real the struggle for those on the ground,
Who face the tempest’s wrath, where courage is found,
In the heart’s crucible, where doubts come to test,
Amidst the storms of life, where fear is not suppressed.

From afar, heroes appear adorned in glory’s haze,
But truth unraveled reveals their mortal malaise,
For true valor blooms amidst the thunder’s roars,
Where souls are forged resilient, amidst life’s wars.

In the embrace of danger’s fateful lure,
True bravery, unyielding, takes its form pure,
It is then we see the valor that lies within,
When fear is confronted, courage shall begin.

So let us not judge the brave from afar,
For their scars bear witness to what they truly are,
From safe havens, we may pass judgments untrue,
Without knowing the battles they valiantly go through.

May empathy guide us to seek the deeper essence,
To walk beside the brave, dismissing our own pretense,
For in understanding their struggles and plight,
Our hearts may ignite, illuminated by their light.

For it is easy to be brave from a safe distance,
But true valor lies in facing life’s existence,
Let us embrace empathy, and courage to explore,
With hearts united, seeking truth evermore.

Crunch of leaves beneath our feet, as we ran through the forest happily.
The smell of cider and cinnamon, lingering in the air was so heavenly.
The sun sets sooner and the nights grow longer, as the seasons change again.
But memories of autumn’s beauty remain, as we embrace the chill and refrain.

The harvest moon shines bright, casting a golden glow on the fields below.
The pumpkins are ripe and ready, for carving and decorating in a festive show.
The chill in the air is invigorating, reminding us of the coming winter snow.
But for now, we bask in the glow of autumn’s radiance, letting our spirits grow.

As the days pass by, and the leaves fall from the trees so grand.
We cherish the moments of autumn, as they slip away like grains of sand.
The colors of fall fade into the distance, as winter takes its hold.
But memories of autumn linger on, eternally cherished and forever bold.

In the heart of autumn’s gentle grace,
Where nature dons its fiery embrace,
The leaves of red and gold take flight,
A swirling dance in the fading light.

They tremble, quiver, and gently fall,
In the whispering breeze, they heed the call,
Their journey to earth, a graceful ballet,
As they carpet the ground in a vivid display.

Each leaf a masterpiece, a work of art,
With veins of life and a beating heart,
They rustle and sigh in the crisp, cool air,
A testament to a season so rare.

In the canopy, they once held sway,
Now on the ground, they find their way,
A symphony of colors, a vibrant array,
As they bid farewell to the sun’s warm ray.

Beneath the trees, we stroll and ponder,
As autumn’s magic pulls us under,
The rustling leaves, a lullaby’s song,
A reminder that nature’s beauty is never long.

So let us embrace this fleeting time,
As the leaves descend in their prime,
For in their descent, they teach us well,
The beauty of letting go, as we too must farewell.

Pencil a pencil, slender and sleek, whispers secrets on the page, its graphite tip, a dancer’s toe, tracing lines of thought, unencumbered. it dances across the paper’s stage, twirling and swirling in graceful arcs, a silent symphony of words and shapes, unfolding the mysteries of the mind. its lead, a conductor’s baton, conducting the orchestra of ideas, scribbling melodies of inspiration, in the language of graphite and wood. oh, pencil, humble and unassuming, you hold the power to create, to give life to thoughts and dreams, with each stroke, a world takes shape. so let us cherish this simple tool, this wand of possibility and expression, for in its simplicity, it holds the key, to unlock the wonders of imagination.

Squirrels leap with vain effort,
Baffles guard the seeds.
Autumn’s bounty held aloft,
Nature’s jest in silent play.