Wednesday, August 20, 2014


The field that yielded farmer-gold
Is stripped; dawn lifts its latch
We spill into summer’s frail hold
Ere autumn strikes its match

The lawn’s deep-cool pooled luxury
Is touched by trace of tears
With what once was and what must be
Of leaf-song balladeers

The garden bares its fare; we smile
While that fast-talking clock
Seems bent upon the grinning guile
Of petals on the walk

Into dawn’s honeyed yawn we run,
Where summer’s spangled lea
Rolls like a wave beneath the sun
Toward eternity

For every bloom in earth’s ball-room
And early green of youth
Is caught up in Time’s spinning loom
Of season-woven truth

And where we staggered infant-like
Then swaggered with pretense
We pause because the clock soon strikes
In deft deliverance

…and we accept that we, inept
At matters of good-bye
Must learn to dance; nothing withheld
Autumn leans on the sky

© Janet Martin

 This wheat-field is balled up and gone, as are most in the area .

  I noticed burgundy edges on a deep green maple tree.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thank you for your visit to this porch. Any thoughts you would like to share?