Streetlight in the Mist
A quiet chill settles over Prospect Avenue tonight, where the autumn air hangs thick and damp enough to hold the […]
A quiet chill settles over Prospect Avenue tonight, where the autumn air hangs thick and damp enough to hold the […]
Low late-day sun fires the tree crowns into copper,
while pale clouds drift slowly across November blue.
A month ago the boughs were green,
With creamy blooms of blushing rose;
Now paper rust adorns the scene,
Before the coming winter snows.
The traffic pauses, green and red,
Above the empty sweep of street;
While old brick arches overhead,
Where past and quiet shadows meet.
A heavy ceiling, cool and gray,
Held morning back in quiet dread;
Till golden lances broke their way,
To warm the barren gravel bed.
The twisted cedar grips the shore,
In weathered ribs of gray and brown;
Content to hold what went before,
And keep the timber standing down.
No whisper calls the branch to yield,
No warning chills the fading air;
It settles on the quiet field,
A scarlet star resting there.
The white spire climbs the autumn blue,
Above the brick of elder days;
Where bronze recalls what Yale once knew,
In steadfast watch and sober praise.
The weight has left the empty crown,
No longer held against the sky;
The timber lays its burden down,
Without a backward glance or sigh.
The quiet water holds the hill,
A mirror stained in crimson fire;
The buoyant pads are resting still,
As autumn climbs the timber higher.
The marsh holds tight the damp and cold,
Until the morning burns it thin;
A furnace disc of smoky gold,
Where wilderness and dawn begin.
No torrent shakes the timber floor,
Nor carves the mountain in its wake;
It slips along the quiet shore
With only gentle steps to make.