art and poetry by Carmen H Gray
Sundays in Autumn
Sundays in Autumn are alive
In and amongst the decay
The burnished rust revealing
That even an exquisite crown
Moves from its gilded beginnings
To evidence of archaic vulnerable venerability
All this I see with a deep inhale and an exhilarating sigh
That great oak, grande dame, standing
Gazing back at me
Telling me these truths
That’s what Sundays in Autumn are for
Monarca Rising 