Steps In Between

Celaine Charles ~ My journey as a writer ~ Click STEPS IN BETWEEN above for more Blog posts ~ author site:

CC’s Poetry ~ 3 Fall Poems

Art by Debbie Criswell

Slipping into October

Quietly, I slip into October’s chilly breeze,

pull it gently across suntanned shoulders,

await the sunrise show of stunning gold

surprises under canopies, longtime green.


Birch and Maple thoughtfully drink the fall,

sipping slow, to savor each earthly bouquet,

as it will be their last for a long time to come.

So, I clink my glass to their farewells,


bring color to my cold stone fireplace,

crimson and persimmon, like a breath;

a fresh renewal. Season’s phoenix takes flight,

soars gem-stained skies in a dance of silence,


and the world begins its cocoon…

By Celaine Charles

Autumn in the Ocean

She rises with the ocean current, slow

lazy morning for waves with little wind,

but the chill seeps down deep, calling,

and the colors!


She nears the surface along the eastern coast,

exploding in copper and crimson,

dotting the shore like arcadian redfish

cling to a muddy floor.


The slip of her sleek golden tail, a twist

and turn—only reflections of amber sun

to beachcombers exhaling salty air,

in hope of a lucky catch.


She’s found her hidden treasure though

before their weakened eyes, behind their sluggish

sense of smell, gems like rubies and topaz

announce the one season


she desperately wants to embrace, like a song,

to swirl in a dance to the depths of the sea,

to hide among the redfish, her own

autumn in the ocean.

By Celaine Charles

Marooned in the Season

Isolated behind lavish layers of fog,

I think I’ll stay right here

on this early November morn

where I am unfound for a few

precious moments from constant pull.


I will huddle with the leaves,

marooned in the season, to fall,

to alight atop frost-kissed grass

blades like a sacrifice, a ritualistic

renewal within the privacy of Earth’s


gray swags, sloping low. They cloak

my heart, somehow lost on the outside

of fevering skin, crimson like the maples

already tossed aside, lamenting what-ifs

from earlier summer months, and first


September days, lost then, to October,

to the now that stands perfectly still

in the ashen light, holding time captive

for a few precious moments from constant

pull. I will huddle with the leaves…


marooned. Marooned against a grim

misty sky. Morning, hold me in your arms,

sway me from your branches one last

time before the wind lifts, casts me

onward. And I return to a foggy day.

By Celaine Charles