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Posts Tagged ‘autumn’

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Pecking poppy seeds

chickadee does not see me.

Old cat sees us both.

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(c) 2020  Betty Hayes Albright

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Photo by Skylar Ewing / Pexels.com

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Brine

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So soon, again

they come this way –

long shadows

in the meadow play

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between the leaves

turned red and gold

where faeries

of the frost behold

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a disappearance

of the bees,

the fogging

in a stand of trees,

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the seasoning

of twig and vine

as Fall adds nutmeg

to the brine.

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©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright 

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autumn autumn mood colorful edge of the woods

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A little less red

in the flower bed,

a little more gold on the tree –

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the mantis is praying,

the skyline is fraying

and Sol slips another degree.

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©  2019  Betty Hayes Albright

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(Just a little scribble…)

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Photo from Pixabay

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Autumn Leaving

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Falling brittle down

through the fog

I crack and break.

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You take me carefully

to your hearth

once more –

we knew I’d never last

till winter.

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When the fog lifts

I crumble,

await another spring.

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(c) 1982, 2018  Betty Hayes Albright

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(From 1982, never before published, so pretend it’s new. 😉 )

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selective focus photo of white petaled flower

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Sunlight shrinks away

behind the thin of poplar trees,

spiders throw red shadows

in the paths of tired bees,

spells of a waxing moon are cast

and dragonflies change speed

with just a touch of madness

as summer goes to seed.

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(c) 1993, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post from 2011 – revised)

.Photo by Ithalu Dominguez on Pexels.com

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It changes fast

that marbled sky

from sheets of paste

to curds of gray

and thin blue belts

with heads of steel

connected

by chain lightning.

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Clouds turn glassy

shadows break

we hasten through

the cracking storm

but pause to lift

our empty cups

to catch the rain

and raise a toast

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to the wild wind’s

un-leafing

of the fall.

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© 1993, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post, revised)

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Rush Hour

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From dark, wet lawns

fallen leaves flee

to the gutters,

the streets

spinning cinnamon orange

until giddy, they tumble

in sun-dried whorls

to catch the next storm

out of town.

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(c) 1999, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(a re-post)

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She thought it was

the autumn sun

shining on the dogwood tree

but no

the leaves themselves

were flushed

defying the gray

with red-gold embers

self-lit in the gloom.

It was the spark

within the dead,

the nuances of yesterday,

the fire of life

banked against all odds.

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(c) 2010, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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(re-post, revised)

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It was a long, silent fall

into the days

where “Dad” was spoken

in past tense.

He was tall

like autumn shadows

and he made us laugh

like the dancing, crackled leaves

around our feet.

And he would fast remind us

that trees return

to green

in this orbit’s gentle whirling

when spring gives back again.

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(C) 1997, 2017 Betty Hayes Albright

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9.13.56 Abe Hayes

 

Dad and me 1955

1955 – Deception Pass, Whidbey Island, Washington State

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(A tribute to my dad, who passed away twenty years ago this month.

My apologies to those who have read it previously.)

 

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IMG_3368

Gramma Krackers

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I love when flowers

go to seed

and chickadees

come to feed

and there’s no need

to deadhead,

nor to weed.

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© 2012, 2017  Betty Hayes Albright 

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(re-post… a Gramma Krackers poem)

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