There’s a strange kind of power in the eleventh hour That washes over me every night. A feeble light inside shines and burns brighter As the moments of the day slowly fade. I’m free and falling through the layers of myself, Making friends with who I’ve become since yesterday. Potential towers in the eleventh hour; Preparing to rise with the sun. Memories dance in the shadows. Often the moon peeks in and shines A spotlight on my secrets and fears Or a friend who stands the test of time.

Every poet sings of Spring, But I am awed by Autumn. Leaves dance, swirling flashing To tunes carried on cool brisk air. Brittle bursts of fiery red and gold Forstall the sleep of snowy blankets, And the year holds its bated breath. Nostalgia nods its invisible head. Memories mull in the mind like cider. Reflections ripple in waves and break Into understanding and contentment. Friends and family cram together Like living cornucopias in small houses. Literal and metaphysical fruit ripens And is gathered for fuel against The cold waiting winter that approaches.