“Autumn House”–Erin Beason

Staff Poetry

Late Autumn and a Long Forgotten House

 

The wind rustles the oh-so-fragile leaves,

A downpour of color, red, orange and brown,

Floats through the crisp air and falls to the ground,

Leaving a little more bare those ancient trees.

The fragile decrepit house creaks at its eaves,

Windows long broken, open to all that surrounds.

In the distance I can hear wild hounds,

Caught on to the scents carried by the breeze.

 

The warmth of memories is all I have:

The grand staircase and brightly colored walls,

A rope swing swaying in the sunlit garden.

Those days that I long for, that could not last.

How I wish once more to dance in those halls

And swing again like I’d never fallen.