Untitled oil painting by C.L. Donaldson
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Here's another autumn poem by my aunt, with a decidedly different mood. The painting is one of her husband's, which hung in her house for as long as I can remember.
The Language of Autumn
by Veneta Donaldson
Autumn's swirling leaves imprinted by the winds
Upon the darkening sky above the town
Proclaimed the age-old change the season lends
In earthy volumes of gold and brown.
I heard the haunting voice of the sterling oak
That stands so strong, so proud and gallant still—
Bereft of beauty, alone, and yet it spoke
Of cherished days upon the wind-blown hill.
I heard the willow softly crying there
As tho' its heart could find no peace or rest
Until the resurrecting, springtime air
Touched it gently again upon the breast.
The language of Autumn is clear to me—
I understand the oak bereft of charm.
My heart is one with the weeping willow true—
I too fear Winter's irrevocable harm.
This is part of a group of poems by Veneta Donaldson. A brief bio and the beginning of the series can be found here: Veneta Donaldson: A Poet in the Family.