Stagger ye drunkard,
having drank
the beauty of intoxication
the harvest brings;
russet colours,
frosted hillsides,
and look to the Goldenrod
as it falters in its glory.
Drink deeply the chill,
a paragon upon your breath,
too soon casting
Winter’s cloth about.
Let your soul taste
the finery of the season.
Share with me the kindred cup,
for I delight at your stagger.
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Comments: 4
I've just come back for another read and to highlight my very favorite lines that keep replaying in my mind. What lovely metaphoric language... you've outdone yourself, friend. :-)