Autumn

It is not sad, this light.
It is a trick of the…
a trick of my eyes, which watch
the world through their own sad filter,
a film of defeat…

It is not sad, this light.
It is perfectly insensible,
supremely insensate,
unmoved
as its late, indivisible gold
mirrors itself back
off the turning leaves, lush
with autumn's tawn.

It is not sad, this light.
It does not know, itself,
that its warmth must be this season's last;
that it is falling now
in the year's decline,
on the edge of a winter
sharpening its dark knives
in the shadows…

It is not sad, this light.
It is neutral, it is nothing,
it does not feel.

It is not beautiful,
it is not rich,
it is not poor,
it has no hope inside it
to either start
or stop.

It is not sad, this light.

by Mark Hamilton

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