Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”

Observation of nature concretely portrayed and mediated through metaphor in lyrical language:  If you can put all of that together you might almost verge on myth.  What I just wrote sounds pretentious, doesn’t it?  Let us then emphasize the word verge.


Autumn Ritual

Sonnet XLIII

A ceaseless motion, hub and rim and spoke:

The colors turn in endless cycles ‘round

From gold, to green, to yellow or red, to brown

On birch and chestnut, maple, elm, and oak.

Although the mists of time their movements cloak,

They do not rest for long upon the ground:

From earth, to roots, to branches; then back down

They dance in air , or up again in smoke.


So what becomes of those we pile and burn?

Trees owe the gods a tithe of what they make;

We send the offering up for them with rake

And match, ensuring that the wheel will turn

Once more from gold, to green, to red, to brown,

From earth, to roots, to branches, then back down.


Remember: for more poetry like this, go to and order Stars Through the Clouds! Also look for Inklings of Reality and Reflections from Plato’s Cave, Williams’ newest books from Lantern Hollow Press: Evangelical essays in pursuit of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty.

Donald T. Williams, PhD


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