a poem about a story

october barely whispered
her sweet seductress lines
and the young man
began to wonder
where the words had gone.

“it has been a long time”
he thought to himself
since the rhythm raged
forth from his soul.

“have i grown too old for this?”
“has the muse finally forsaken me?”
as he scratched his head and
sipped his green tea, absentmindedly
unaware of the growing storm
and the winds that were turning
the leaves and shaking the trees.

if this were an english class
somewhere, and students
were reading the night
as a story, the teacher would
say something about
foreshadowing.

but the young man
still yearned for
something just
out of reach.

for now.