November Fell In The Bole Of A Tree Poem by Linda Marie Van Tassell

Hidden within the bole of a tree,
they wept through darkened roots of sorrow.
Imprisoned, yesterday’s memory,
whose eyes will never see tomorrow.

Kokosing Lake swirls with autumn mist,
and the wind scatters the peace of mind
of those left behind with hand in fist
to suffer the worst of humankind.

Night weighs heavy on the quartered moon.
The wood smoke rises over the hill,
and skeletal leaves in death commune
in the fade of life-giving chlorophyll.

Ivy trails a wall of ancient stone,
whose splintered beam is about to break;
but none should suffer in grief alone
when suffering for another’s sake.

November counts away the hours
as night outpaces the light of day.
Brushed black silk and forgotten flowers,
intermingled, in the dust do lay.

Within a column of smooth, gray bark,
in the heartwood of evergreen sweep,
where lovers are known to carve their mark,
pale faces lay in the arms of sleep.

The once bright-eyed and smiling faces
are now lifeless in a leafless tree,
and blood-red stains resound in traces
in rings of a mournful threnody.

Mankind slips into a tangled knot.
A nudge of wind is perched on the pine,
and life is twisted into a garrote
whose kisses are death to thee and thine.

How sad to suffer ourselves to die!
When night encircles, we cease to be.
One man’s laughter is another’s cry
whose lone comfort is insanity.

The eyes are flooded with sanguine tears
over loved ones that have been taken
whose lights have dimmed and whose hopes and fears
you won’t find trace of when you waken.