The Devil’s Rest

The last flowers are the brightest,
defiant against the cooling nights,
petals torn by October’s wind,

they, like you, stand,
vibrant and broken,
beautifully imperfect

God’s garden,
more beautiful
for the nearness of winter.

And the devil rests, sure
of the coming cold, sure
of death, somehow forgetting

the eternal resurrection of spring.

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I don’t know what has me writing this cycle of “devil” poems. Perhaps my ongoing battle against depression, which is generally part physical, part emotional and part (at times) the soft whispers of Satan himself in our ears. Or perhaps something else. Whatever it is, this  group of poems is not planned. They are spontaneous. Thank you for bearing with me.

The photograph was taken at the back door of Williams Store in Dorset, Vermont. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom