The Madness of October
Early in the morning, you walk.
The ground smells of last night rain
and the sun dries the path.
Two weeks ago it was summer
and suddenly it is fall.
The leaves change improbably fast,
like age, a sudden thief of vitality,
leaving behind, not death, but new color,
change, the elixir that forces your rest,
chases you within, where the demons play
violins, music from the theme from Psycho,
false thoughts that need, desperately need
the quiet of winter
more than the dry madness of October.
About this poem
The light grows short. Leaves are coloring. Fall is upon us.
Some people suffer terribly in the short seasons. I, thankfully, am not one of them, but having gone through my own dark seasons, I am acutely aware of those who do.