The song of forgotten springs have reached
the dreamer’s heart:
today is the first day of a dream in color.

Last to arrive and last to go is the pale rose’s way.
When it fades butterflies and light will perform
a wonderful mime.

Autumn! Even though we both die at the end
something deep in me will love you
till the end of time!

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Afternoon Light, Dogwood (Thomas Kinkade, 1985)

Trees weigh words and light,
and colors drown in the river.
Summer has lost its memory
but gardens remember Spring.

How strange! It seems to me
I am one thousand years old
and I feel like playing again
hide-and-seek with Fall.

I love those ember days
in the breath of the sun.
My soul was born in September:
today is forever.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Illustration: Bridge at Montfoucault (Camille Pissaro, 1874)

It’s not only children of Autumn
who can make a bouquet of Memories
and write a November poem.

When the wind calmed down
I went to the garden.
I started by collecting
burnt orange and red leaves.
I pressed them between
the yellowed pages of an old dictionary.
I watched the trees,
I gazed at the Moon
and I thought of you.
I did not wait very long.
Then I put my ear
to the book.

BEAUTY
was the first word
that came to me.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: Autumn Leaves
(Georgia O’Keeffe, 1924)

How nice to stand
in the morning light
as the oak leaves turn gold
and life comes to an end.

How nice to be
followed by a bird
when silence meets
Silence.

How nice to see
through the Veil space and time
surprisingly intertwined
with one another.

The Eye and the World.
The Beauty of Autumn.
Consciousness. Endlessness.
Emptiness.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

illustration: the Messenger of Autumn
(Paul Klee, 1922)

It’s not springtime
yet Spring is in the air.

Birds seem not to care
and roses confuse
dreams with reality.

But shadows lengthen
and the robin’s heart
beats faster and faster.

September farewell.
There so little time left.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Un air de printemps
flotte sur le jardin.

L’oiseau semble indifférent
et la rose prend
ses rêves pour la réalité.

Mais les ombres s’allongent
et le cœur du rouge gorge
bat la chamade.

Adieu Septembre.
Il reste si peu de temps.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Ombre© 2018– F.G.M.

Taciturn poplars close ranks.
They do not fear November.

I try to fill in the blanks.
Will the dawn remember?

But the sky has cried enough,
flowers have fallen into a deep sleep.

Winter Soldiers know their stuff.
The last Hope is a secret to keep.

© Frédéric Georges Martin

~

Peupliers au petit matin © 2017 – F.G.M.

Soon a chill will come,
and soon true gold will abound.
Autumn, today is your birthday
and a bird is singing!

But soon the leaves,
falling aimlessly,
shall stop dreaming.
Autumn, I’m already grieving.

There is a time
when colours hide
a time when we leave and rise.
Autum, I’ll miss you!

© Frédéric Georges Martin