Muse of Quiet Autumn

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Muse of Quiet Autumn

She stands where the pale light is a whisper,
A shadow draped in patterned indigo and rust.
Her beauty is not shouted, but grows deeper,
A secret held in fragile porcelain and trust.

The street is a river of quick, blurred motion,
But she is the silence where the colors mend.
Her gown, a garden sinking to the ocean,
Where pink and plum and shadow softly blend.

Her eyes, though lowered, hold the golden ember
Of all the light the passing storm has known.
She is the memory only poets remember,
A quiet, perfect Muse upon her throne.

For in her stillness, every drop of rain
Becomes a pearl that washes clean the pane.
She needs no sun to shine, no voice to call,
She is the grace found just before the fall.