Shuffling feet brush tawny needles across the path,
scattering their fragile splayed fingers.
Sunlight ripples through emptying branches,
forming breezy bridges of shadows.
Wind carries songs of harvest, the taste of damp,
and the crushing pressure of lost time.
Yellow leaves catch on the clasp of your coat,
crunch under your fingers and pool underfoot.
The seasons carry tides for the sea bereft.
The best walk is an autumn trail hand in hand.
I believe I just wrote a Caldralor. Maybe? That was this week’s prompt from the Wea’ve Written Weekly (W3) at the Skeptic’s Kaddish. Sylvia Cognac provided a haunting poem and some guidance on the Cadralor form.
Numbering is apparently an element of a Caldralor. I feel strange mixing numbers with my poetry, the same way I felt when I took algebra and my middle school teacher started tossing x’s and y’s into the mathematic equations. So here’s a bonus poem (riddle?) without numbering yet wearing numerical connotations (I think I’m ready for bed):
Do our words need to be numbered and parsed, I ask a cold and moonless sky.
The answer, she replies, lies beyond the last digit of pi.