Golden grasses hang
Suspended in warm air;
Gossamer threads string pearled strands
Across
In beaded chains;
Dew pools form
In grassy hollows.
Swallows have gone.
Blurred edges of the season;
Leaves torn by storm and rain;
Curled and ragged forms
Peppered lawns with
Debris strewn;
The party’s over-
The morning after.
On the brink of change;
Hold as we might to summer days;
We orbit on
Tilting from the sun until
Summer’s gone.
Yes, that’s exactly how it happens. I like your gossamer strands. I love watching them drifting across the meadow.
LikeLike