October

Look at the people, and tell me what you see.

           In October, says I.

           In October, says she.

I love the way a person’s eyes

Shine like the sun on a rainy day.

How the subtle eyelid drops

As a leaf flutters on the blue bay

          Breeze that knocks down trees.

What do you see when you look at me?

          No way, says I.

          Just say, says she.

Your eyes are the harsh Autumn

With sharp winds that cut and tear

The bright green leaf from the dull brown branch,

And a fallen oak too sad to bear.

         You’ll cry, says I.

    Wonder why, says she.

When the last leaf falls, grey and dry,

From the long-standing oak, you’ll cry.