Ode To The Chattahoochee River

It’s a beautiful evening just after Thanksgiving;

The sun is about to set and autumn is ending.

Strolling on the grass by the Chattahoochee,

I stop by a swing near a hammock-clad tree.

Auburn leaves and the reds, the yellows and their shades

Now look into the river as their glory slowly fades.

Beholding ducks flying o’er the river’s golden retreats,

I think of Wordsworth and Frost and Thoreau and Keats.

What must’ve inspired their verse, now conspires to inspire mine!

What ostentatious displays of colors, by the hands divine!

The cold biting breeze slowly begins to make its trip

And a bleak lonely shudder, down my spine takes its grip.

The melancholy of the zeitgeist now presents itself to me;

Before their appointed times, why men the world do flee?

While their lands jolt each day, shunning the remnants of mirth;

What merit do we possess to witness this heaven on earth?

Perhaps, times and seasons are happenstance to all;

Pieces of this puzzle, in place will someday fall.

Yet rapt in the warmth of a coffee and the depth of the river nearby.

I quietly ponder on how life unravels and heals and does grow by and by.