I love this time of swan song summer days
when autumn is not quite here but her red
fingers, fresh with new paint, like a child, plays
at tinging the leaves’ edges overhead.
I love the silver-pearled webs appearing
here and there and the bare hint of cool breath
of dawn giving up the ghost to cheering
sunshine’s last glad hug. It’s a sweet, good death.
I love the apples, green and big, bowing
their branches under weight of fruitfulness.
down on one, her bright joy all truthfulness.
Childhood and age dance in these days of light
departing into tender starlit night.