Summer slowly dies—
Heat of long days breathes its last.
Harvest fruit hangs sweetly
Ripe upon September limb.
Cool morning air braces, awakens
Something deep within, contracts,
Uncertain, then certain fall approaches,
Knows that follows winter blast.
Muscles tense and mourn loss of
Early morning rising sun.
What comes will undercut the aging heart
Left barren by frost and death.
Quietly, the garden swells,
Dies in promise of the world to come.
Within this mortal bargain,
Earth tilts its waist to sing again Amen.
White flocks of soulful swans compose
Flight in face of feathered winter madness,
Belief in easy summer grace flies along…
Goodness idles no longer than a breath of days.
Seasons change, refract in sight of death,
Compresses cold reality against the chest,
Bequeaths in dust revolving in unspoken sleep,
Awakens truth of stronger birth to come.