The air is crisp tonight.
The clouds gather
and stare down mournfully,
not intending to be ominous.
The do mean to portend rain
and they whisper on cool breath
"a change follows us
like a shadow you may
wish to avoid but cannot."
This, they say, is our gift;
this is the burden you must bear.
As the now cool sun retreats,
as the breeze shifts nightward
I write on the wind
with my finger - farewell -
and the summer sings me
her departure song.
No comments:
Post a Comment