by Neal Whitman & Amelia Fielden

its scent suggests what was lost
forbidden fruit
to autumn: I lift my hat
and toss it in the wind

words blown about
by the April breezes
my tanka in shades
of crimson and gold

for the leaf of me
oops…I mean the life of me
what could be better
than to promenade
beneath Japanese maples

brocaded hills
above brown rice paddies
travelling through the valleys
of Honshu Island

was it fall
Adam and Eve left Eden?
how they must have missed
their quilted meadowland,
its glorious fabric

the rosy sheen of their skins
sweet, juicy
the crunchy whiteness
of their flesh – oh, Delicious

whipped cream
topping my Irish coffee
topping pumpkin pie
what can surpass these riches?
a second helping, please

a pumpkin each
to make jack o’lanterns
at Halloween
I can never celebrate
with far off grandchildren

Canada geese
in vee formation honking
at dusk
when temperatures drop
our house guests too head south

over the lake
sunsets ever more brilliant
these days
of ‘declining sun’ –
an old man gazes westward

winter’s discontent
spring, the mud season
summer doldrums –
as for me, I profess
to being an autumn amorist

persimmon globes
glowing from bare branches
against blue sky…
can any season
rival this in beauty

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