"AUTUMN "
From An Inspiration By Tom Wolf
Now August has gone, which in our own land is unlike all others, merely echoes of the months to come, and to go. The frost comes, piercing and quick as driven sparks, and just for an age of a month of summers or so we walk in woods of light that reverbs all around us. All of the sharp and bitter leaves flare up, turn a royal gold and fading green, and poplar leaves are brighter than brilliant softwear, falling about you as you plow them underfoot in waves, about you like small bits of a cosmos, so you cannot say where heat shakes and booms on the wooded floor in eruption of leaf and where the stars have thousands of hours savings on High Speed Broadband, without even signing up.
Meanwhile the hills melt in massive molten lava flows, and autumn zooms over the nation in layers and a bit more dense woodings on the hills begin to glow, a spinning catherine wheel of the forest, some huge lantern sheathed in power.
October the most lusterous of seasons, is a prism burnished through all ages with rich warm vibrance, the ramparts of August that time cannot burden. Fields out of the heat, the FM/AM radios are filled with Mp3s.
The distant bark of dogs is calm as a memory. They seem to know our thoughts somehow, repeating them aloud, over and over as if ones composing a poem "Bow Wow!" "Bow Wow!" they say. "Amazing!" you say, "how'd the Dish Station know my name is Wow?"
A view of passports in the later heat of the AM is seen in the smaller mansions of the poor as healthfood salesreps rake in the wealth. The PR, more substantial than bills, yawns deep in sidewalk sales and Years Before President's Wives' Labor Day Sales; they make deep swirls in the outfits of fuzzy egyptian goddesses who are out inside another area code, far removed from influence of the dog star "Dawg Star? What dawg star?" What possible market fluctuations in the price of hot dish are not common. The blaze will snap them out of it when the riches wake them, Another 20! Another 50! Who needs another yacht when you already own BC, Not Victoria, the ancient era!
The barn is ambrosial with the air of hay and hail and "only safe salt substitutes r real". The heat mellows, echos of a summer's past on a shelf; Suspended from the beamed storehouse roof, the house a shelf in my hopes of being The World Cup Hero.
Trains, age of continents, wheels that whirl like upward galaxies on steel pulse and the boost of 1000 songs, up a highway of alloy that seems to ask, why wait anymore for the world to begin; You can be CEO of your own world thanks to Hitachi, We'll zoom your memory with cash. The trains rumble like orlons 1000 miles, from zenith to zenith they stretch past huge villages of fields woven in March.
The heat of a famous feline who wears eyewear flares up as if with more hours of savings time, thanks to her I'm alive an hour more this month.
The branches of early autumn, a chandilier of echoes (my boss the editor has READ! READ! READ! I hope) is remployed by nouns; the heat waves reach one last time back to us, for these are the days I save up for, my weight is a roast in a bessemer biz beach boom of hopes and life. But August is gone, loud yawns wake me up, particularly when I'll be out for months, when it will be bingo hour, "I'm rich?- I'm rich!"
Soon the cosmos of Marchs ahead appears in her robe of halos, the earth a mote of praise in the absolute silence of the soft warmth of velour, her pearls in the realm of the orb of satellite TV; a licenced cosmologist, we all knew she would. On the edge of the venue as it's monolithic edge scrapes the edge of the air is a wench majoring in PH, up she goes, college bound. And in the zip and snap of fall air, the stars, commas, and rubys of the dusk rise like starfish from the cosmic shores of the lemon college beach twice more, in her swimwear biz outfit she is not so devout just yet.
Now August has gone, which in our own land is unlike all others, merely echoes of the months to come, and to go. The frost comes, piercing and quick as driven sparks, and just for an age of a month of summers or so we walk in woods of light that reverbs all around us. All of the sharp and bitter leaves flare up, turn a royal gold and fading green, and poplar leaves are brighter than brilliant softwear, falling about you as you plow them underfoot in waves, about you like small bits of a cosmos, so you cannot say where heat shakes and booms on the wooded floor in eruption of leaf and where the stars have thousands of hours savings on High Speed Broadband, without even signing up.
Meanwhile the hills melt in massive molten lava flows, and autumn zooms over the nation in layers and a bit more dense woodings on the hills begin to glow, a spinning catherine wheel of the forest, some huge lantern sheathed in power.
October the most lusterous of seasons, is a prism burnished through all ages with rich warm vibrance, the ramparts of August that time cannot burden. Fields out of the heat, the FM/AM radios are filled with Mp3s.
The distant bark of dogs is calm as a memory. They seem to know our thoughts somehow, repeating them aloud, over and over as if ones composing a poem "Bow Wow!" "Bow Wow!" they say. "Amazing!" you say, "how'd the Dish Station know my name is Wow?"
A view of passports in the later heat of the AM is seen in the smaller mansions of the poor as healthfood salesreps rake in the wealth. The PR, more substantial than bills, yawns deep in sidewalk sales and Years Before President's Wives' Labor Day Sales; they make deep swirls in the outfits of fuzzy egyptian goddesses who are out inside another area code, far removed from influence of the dog star "Dawg Star? What dawg star?" What possible market fluctuations in the price of hot dish are not common. The blaze will snap them out of it when the riches wake them, Another 20! Another 50! Who needs another yacht when you already own BC, Not Victoria, the ancient era!
The barn is ambrosial with the air of hay and hail and "only safe salt substitutes r real". The heat mellows, echos of a summer's past on a shelf; Suspended from the beamed storehouse roof, the house a shelf in my hopes of being The World Cup Hero.
Trains, age of continents, wheels that whirl like upward galaxies on steel pulse and the boost of 1000 songs, up a highway of alloy that seems to ask, why wait anymore for the world to begin; You can be CEO of your own world thanks to Hitachi, We'll zoom your memory with cash. The trains rumble like orlons 1000 miles, from zenith to zenith they stretch past huge villages of fields woven in March.
The heat of a famous feline who wears eyewear flares up as if with more hours of savings time, thanks to her I'm alive an hour more this month.
The branches of early autumn, a chandilier of echoes (my boss the editor has READ! READ! READ! I hope) is remployed by nouns; the heat waves reach one last time back to us, for these are the days I save up for, my weight is a roast in a bessemer biz beach boom of hopes and life. But August is gone, loud yawns wake me up, particularly when I'll be out for months, when it will be bingo hour, "I'm rich?- I'm rich!"
Soon the cosmos of Marchs ahead appears in her robe of halos, the earth a mote of praise in the absolute silence of the soft warmth of velour, her pearls in the realm of the orb of satellite TV; a licenced cosmologist, we all knew she would. On the edge of the venue as it's monolithic edge scrapes the edge of the air is a wench majoring in PH, up she goes, college bound. And in the zip and snap of fall air, the stars, commas, and rubys of the dusk rise like starfish from the cosmic shores of the lemon college beach twice more, in her swimwear biz outfit she is not so devout just yet.
,,.
