Aubade

No two days of ending August are the same.
The morning clouds prevaricate. How long before
one hears the stone and snap of amber Autumn’s flame?

An image moves across the lake or takes the name
I wove in vines and carved into the cabin door
in bygone days of ending August. Are these same

entanglements to whisper daily over tame
and heavy surfaces? To coil into some roar
I’ll hear? The stone and snap of amber Autumn’s flame

in watercolor runs to gray and fills the frame
with basic forms–the sky and bluff, the lake, the shore—
yet no two days of ending August are the same.

At summer’s end I start to open trunks that came
in late July and took up shadows on the floor.
I hear the stone and snap of amber Autumn’s flame

and close the lids. The wine and hour wash my claim
on any item, weather is a metaphor,
and no two days in ending August are the same.
One hears the stone and snap of amber Autumn’s flame.

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2 Responses to “Aubade”

  1. Todd Says:

    Rick, I like this piece, it sticks in my mind on the long drive home at night.

  2. Rick Says:

    Thanks Todd!

    The villanelle is much villified. But I love the buggers.

    RM

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