The Mystic’s Autumn – a poem by Bruce Gunther

The Mystic’s Autumn

We remind ourselves how we have more time
now that the backyard pool is covered and the leaves
are splotched with color; out the back window 
the neighbor’s maple is doused with red wine.

You cover yourself with my mother’s old blanket,
open the book of puzzles and get to work – the tip
of your dark yellow pencil is sharpened to a point.

The leaden sky revealed at sunrise is ominous,
reminding us that winter has risen from its long
sleep and pulls on its heavy, worn boots.

The furnace restarts with its long exhale
while the words of a favorite poet settle
into consciousness as if spoken directly from Rumi.

Rumi, ancient jester, how would you feel
if the dervish wind spoke through the maple’s branches
that slowly, slowly, shed their fancy suit of clothes?

Bruce Gunther is a former journalist and writer who lives in Bay City, Michigan. He’s a graduate of Central Michigan University. His poems have appeared in Arc Magazine, the Comstock Review, the Dunes Review, Modern Haiku, and others.