Though Scent Still From You Pour
(You Are Different Than Before)
© 2016 Barbara M. Schwarz
Purple Eyes Publishing (PEP)
the value of knowing
Published by PEP at Shakespir
ISBN: 978-1-910774-80-9
Please respect the author’s copyright and the artist’s creations.
On the front cover: “Memories of Leaves” 2016.
Shakespir Edition, License Notes
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Acknowledgements
The steadiness of breeze, the sense that autumn seize all our memories.
Though Scent Still From Your Pour
(You Are Different Than Before)
Though scent still from you pour
You are different than before
All your leaves now on the floor
Harvest time another
Shore
And I start to see
Nothing left now for me
No gift further to behold
No more fortune now be told
And your leaves now on the floor
No more colour draw
My eye now to your side
Here you hide in winter’s pride
All the juice inside
And though scent
Still whispering speak
Now in winter
Stillness peak
Dark and quiet terrain
When sunlight lights your path so plain
Your structure now is all the same:
I feel a waiting game
(And) call you now to name
A rest of seasons to proclaim
It’s all good earth now
Once again
And though the scent still from you pour
You are different than before
Feel the cold wind whisper -
Roar, you are close to heaven’s door
Whispered sorrow sing
A return of next year’s Spring
Whispered sorrow bring
A silence that (now) flutter wing
Whispered sorrow wring
The last that the old shall sing
A simple hymn
To mark the time
We revelled in pure sunshine
And though scent still pour
So many now on the floor
Autumn now for sure
Cedes to Winter pure
The whispering a scent now bring
To harbour life until next Spring
For there the future bring
New scent in everything
Purple Eyes Publishing
A simple source to digress: the slowing down to restfulness, and there the air a tenderness address what life no longer outwardly possess, and so to simply caress, a moment stepped in time, a silent waiting to define.
A final sense of knowing: autumn almost going and taking with the leaves, the last of scented breeze. The sense of slowing down and becoming very still, where birds no longer trill: nothing now so plain as winter's waiting game.