On Being Virginia Woolf....

Melancholic haze of fall’s days whispers,

Beckoning like surging waves upon the wind

To create a shadowed veil from depression’s

Already foreboding sensations it sends

Fleeting aspirations, like withered brown leaves,

Drift, scattering across the gardens of my heart

United in deep-seated wistfulness of emotional platitudes

While ceasing never in its quest to thwart

The solitude of long sought after, evasive peace;

Strengthening, it wreaks havoc with all doubt and

Dryness of the soul’s river expands, imitating

The heart’s long starved, thirst driven drought.

With the fall’s ache comes a residual of murmurs,

Mirroring a lack of any impending hope in sight

As winter’s encroaching call, like destiny, creeps in,

Akin to death, reminiscent of a failing plight.

“How I feel autumn's ache.”— Virginia Woolf

Cynthia Calder, 10.12.24