Seed pods hold the promise
of next year’s crop.
The roots, long reconciled to seasons,
stand steadfast with no thought
of leaving.

The old maple has just begun to turn.
No sprout of Judas tree
these branches that have held the swing
for generations; ropes wear out
but not these sturdy limbs.

Clematis wicks the air with sweet perfume
until Jack’s nip turns to lethal bite.
The coleus shivers to a deep maroon –
earth-tones are the fashion now
it seems.

The sun puts in a shorter day.
Twilight, accompanied by cicadas trill,
spills across the field pulling a curtain
of silence behind it, night claims dominion;
all is still.

 

 

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