Indian Summer

Here's one that is not mine . . .

Indian Summer

With her hill-slope pipe
October is an Indian squaw
Who smokes all the leaves of the summer.
The air is hazy with poignant fragrance
Of dusty leaves,
Brown leaves,
Smouldering, burning.

All year
My dreams are like dry leaves
Poked in a pipe;
But when
October puffs upon my soul,
My dreams begin to burn.

With her hill-slope pipe
October is an Indian squaw
Who smokes all my fancies and longings.
There's some elixir in the poignant fragrance
Of gothic dreams,
Old dreams,
Smouldering, burning.

~Miriam Cassel Matthews