December 10, 2017

Three poems by Adam J. Sedia: "The Golden Tree," "The Chrysanthemums,"and "Geese in Flight"

Adam J. Sedia lives with his family in his native Lake County, Indiana, where he practices law as a civil and appellate litigator. He has published two volumes of poetry, "The Spring's Autumn" and "Inquietude," and has published scholarly articles in various legal journals. He also composes music, which may be heard on his YouTube channel.

Tulip Tree

The Golden Tree

Amidst the neatly regimented rows
Of eye-high cornstalks, green and supple still
In mid-September’s dying heat, there grows

A solitary tree, a tulip tree,
Tall sentinel to watch the ordered plain
With proud, yet lonely incongruity –

Resplendent, golden in oblique late rays,
As though a relic of King Midas’s reign,
Or as if Autumn hastened her cool days.

Ah, me! Too soon it yellows, long before
October sounds the greenery’s death-knell.
Why? Solitude? Can it endure no more?

The Chrysanthemums

When torrid Summer’s greenery,
Its vibrant hues and spiced perfume
Lie far, fast-fading memory,
                              Your flowers bloom.

When all the world around you fades,
Dries up, and withers, seeing death
Approach in night’s increasing shades,
                              You breathe sweet breath.

When long, dark Winter’s icy blast,
Whose hints fly in the breezes’ chill,
Inevitably nears at last –
                              You flourish still.

Your colors, rather than exclaim
Like childish March or vain July,
Burn bold with shades of earth and flame
                              So modestly.

You brighten up a world that dies,
Reminding you what soon must be.
Your fate surrounds you: therein lies
                              Your tragedy.

And thus I love you most: despite
The futile lateness of your prime;
You dare to thrive in dying light,
                              And shine sublime.

Geese in Flight

An artless, brash, half-mournful cry
Rends the languid autumn sky,

A fractious chorus blaring
Earthen horns, fanfaring

Summer’s end, foretelling winter’s scourge,
With half-laughing, half-lamenting dirge.

The line of black-faced wraiths soars by,
Vanishes. Its echoes die.

But yet the calls reverberate within,
Stirring pangs of yearning and chagrin.

Adam J. Sedia

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