How will I know September
will it be when the roses stop their showing?
Today, as I watch the leaves tumble
from the trees
what at first glance, seems
like natures timing
slowly begins to take shape –
forcing thoughts into cold sharp malign.
From muddy work - brown boots
to ink pot reds
collapsed spent exhausted, dead upon the
garden floor, the markings
of a seasons time
beginning to mellow, beckoning towards its retiring end.
When my days fall into a deep recession
allowing life’s negatives to blur my weary edges
whose body will I take, for its comfort warming tones?
When the chills swell to overload
shall then the last leaf and I tumble as one
being of a significance no more...