Day 47: Fall

Here

Wake up

Fields of hay

Browned and rotten

Clay soil thick with mud

Hardened by autumn snap

Grass-roots lifted sun-ward bound

No longer twisting heads now dead

Brown lawns idle thinly frosted dawn

Lay to rest summer’s warm bed forgotten

Waiting now for a snowy blanket

Shadows longer creeping past trees

Withered fingers beckoning

Winds calling forth the gloom

Blowing hats from heads

Catching leaves; red

Amber, brown

Summer

Gone.

 

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