In memory of my father, who loved my part-Indian mother until his death.
The Drummer is a Ruffed Grouse
The smell of new frost thrills my nose
As petals fall from summer’s rose.
A glimpse of life, another season,
Flee with little rhyme or reason
Like some startled drummer.
We call this autumn, season bright,
Of thousand colors, dancing light.
But sounds of rustling leaves at night
Too soon must die beneath the white
Of winter’s snow.
A wisp of smoke, a distant fire
Rekindle flames of lost desire;
A yearning that I thought had died
Awakens once again inside,
But did you know...
An Indian love call rapidly flees
Away with the wind and whispering leaves
Of Indian Summer?