An Observation By Capt. Poe
Begins the slow melancholy dance of Autumn.
Fallen colored waxen tiles cover the last
remaining sprouts of green, that not so long
ago were new.
Beseeched and then provoked,
I am restless in my sleep.
Beneath my ship the tide conspires
and acts together with my wish,
and tugs against my ties.
Insistent persuasive memory of southern
luring me perceptively
to leave this place behind.
Our always welcome visitants have for months
performed and now fled south to
as should I.
vindictive polar wind that soon arrives,
to leave faceless all the dancing girls
of spring and summer brought.
an icy harbor
Foretelling of sequestered
ships unable then to move.
soon shall be,
none will come nor go.