Traces Of Autumn
Autumn plays no timid song
And wears no modest vestment,
Flourishing its last hurrah
Before a restful interlude.
Dying leaves fall to the ground,
Whispering in the gentle breeze
To haunt the heels of passers-by
And gossip to the cold north winds.
The sweetly reminiscent smell
Born of leaves now laid to rest
Permeates the autumn air
And bids the traveler raise his head
To breathe the singular perfume
Before the icy gales of winter
Rob all traces of this heady scent,
Left to linger only in the mind
With autumns passed and indistinct.
Lauren Isaacson
October 14, 1984
Oct. 19, 1984… I took a drive but was fearful of stopping to take pictures while alone… what a chicken. My Beauty Book order came. Everything is nice; items will make perfect gifts.
Destiny
Though autumn weaves its image
With an all-pervasive air,
Encompassing one's senses
in its splash of brilliant color
and the rustling of the leaves…
in the scent of drying foliage
blowing freely through the trees…
and the taste of ruby apples
and the crispness of the wind,
The barren months which lie ahead
Touch upon one's very soul;
The slanting sun sets trees aglow,
Their leaves a restless fire
Kept alive by northern winds until,
As embers blackened by the flames of yesterday,
They tumble to the ground…
Carpeting the well-clipped lawns
And waiting for the icy hand
That shall transform their shape to dust.
Like the child who aged beyond
A once-beloved bear,
Leaves—uniform as paper dolls
Cut by fingers deft and sure—
Casually are flung aside
As if their purpose has expired.
Quietly a funeral dirge
Mourns balefully amid the breeze,
Heard by all and yet ignored
As if death denied may not unfold.
So silently the coldness seeps
Into the autumn breeze
And birds fall mute before its touch
So one might think the very chill
Had robbed their throaty cries.
No more leaves cling to the trees,
Making idle chatter,
For winter siezed their quiet voice
And hid it deep, 'neath frosty snow.
Silence reigns ov'r one and all
While clouds converge in murky skies;
Death obscures ones vision
To a darkly shade of gray,
And yet in time, the clouds recede,
Rendering warm the gloom-filled heart
And purging sorrow from the mind.
Lauren Isaacson
October 21, 1984
Oct. 22, 1984… It was a great day, until after lunch. I got sick…it was extra discouraging when I realized the beautiful day was passing me by. I finally settled my stomach and Mom and I drove on some rural roads. Later, while in the safety of my home, I had the runs. … Sometimes when I feel so sick, so lousy, I cry… but this time I feel too sick to make the effort… so I just sit.
Oct. 24, 1984… Mom and I took a drive to Loud Thunder. I took some pictures… it was beautiful out. There was a stick bug on me… they're strange little creatures. Later we drove to Petersen Park. Mom suggested I write a poem about the man who was using one of those metal detectors. He was the inspiration; I did so, once home…I like the poem.
Copper Pennies, Golden Leaves