A Cottage Poem For Fall

In keeping with my philosophy that anything goes here at The Cottage Chronicles, I thought tonight we might dip our toes into the murky waters of…you guessed it, poetry….

It’s my way of attempting to add a little culture and having fun trying to make things rhyme.

So Lady and Gentlemen, with my humble apologies, A Cottage Poem For Fall…..

The lake that only yesterday was alive and buzzing like a bumblebee,
Is much calmer now, the crowds are gone, and nowhere a boat to see.
Like the late summer hardwood leaves, rustling in the poplar trees,
the lake has gone still and quiet, gone are the water skis.

The green summer leaves that shaded us just yesterday,
are turning red and yellow as the frost of Autumn has it’s way.
The children pack their lunches, books and blackberries for school,
as the lake water where they use to swim, is now becoming cool.

The power boats on the lake are much fewer in number,
As cottage land prepares itself for it’s long winter slumber.
The water pump is pumping, I hear it dripping as I lay in bed,
It won’t be long till it’s drained and put into the shed.

The retired folks in the cottage next door, loaded up their gear,
heading south, to somewhere hot, they’re gone until next year.
The family of black ducks lift off the lake and begin to fly,
heading for a sweet Louisana marsh, somewhere warmer and dry.

I watch them go, dark shadows against the evening’s ruby red sky,
as I watch them disappear, I rub my eyes and try not to cry.
Because I know as they disappear over the horizon and beyond,
They take with them the summer sun that won’t return until Spring has dawned.

Although they will soon be leaving, they haven’t gone just yet,
The loons are holding fast as if trying to win a bet.
Like those guys in American Pie, taking the last plane for the coast, the loons too will soon be gone, they will be missed the most.

When I listen close on an autumn night, under the light of the moon,
I hear the lonesome call across the lake of the common loon.
Over the water and through the air he calls to me by name,
and says if you stay here for winter Rob, you are completely insane.

The birds will all be down south and the frogs soon won’t peep.
The lake will soon be frozen, the rainbow trout gone down real deep.
Leaves that flutter in the summer breeze, soon are on the ground,
and covered in frost beneath our feet, will make a crunchy sound.

The Harvest Moon is rising over the trees across the lake,
It’s time for the tired farmers, their fields to harvest and rake.
My little cottage vegetable garden is now almost done,
The beans and tomatoes won’t grow much more, without the summer sun.

The whitetail deer will soon pay a visit, looking for a meal,
All they will leave in return are tracks to prove they’re real.
I leave for them some bean sprouts and some fall garden rye,
and perhaps if I am lucky, some morning we will meet eye to eye.

We’ll talk and plan about a boat trip up along the lake,
To see the autumn colors, oh the beautiful photos we will make,
But the autumn air will feel real cold, blustery and chilled,
It won’t be long till the autumn boat trip idea is killed.

The boats at the ramp, and the wharf is ready to come out,
There aren’t many days left that it’s nice in the boat.
As the water turns colder and freezing is nigh,
I’ll pull out my boat and winterize it, with a long sad sigh.

The window shutters are up, ready to be shut and tied,
A good place for the little brown bats to hibernate and hide.
The fridge has been emptied, the freezer defrosted,
The beer is gone missing, I think my neighbor lost it.

We’ll soon put the heavy water-logged wharf up on shore,
And I will curse how heavy it is, call it names like a son of a whore.
But after some hard earned anquish, the wharf will be in it’s space,
And everytime I look at the lake, something will look out of place.

Soon the freezing gales of winter, will blow across the lake,
Sweeping away the cobwebs of summer, the memories they take.
And we will fill the stove with dry maple and birch wood,
Huddle around the woodstove burning just as hot as it could.

We’ll be huddled around the stove in the uninsulated drafty camp,
at least until the first big storm blows out the power and the lamp.
Then we’ll look at each other and act like this is nothing but fun,
Even though the lake is froze over and the summer is done.

We’ll hang on like the last crab apple on the old apple tree,
Bolster our strength with spirits and say winter is great you see.
By morning when the lake is froze solid, the car buried neath snow, and the frost is thick on the inside cabin walls, we’ll know it’s time to go.

We’ll pack the car and lock the doors, leaving in the night,
and through the snow we will go, until the city comes in sight.
Then with shouts of glee and joy, we will pull into the drive,
And say how much we miss the camp but how thankful we’re alive !!

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