|Reeds - 081811|
These first signs of the coming solstice are still warm
yet the darkness of the coming decline into long nights
brings thoughts of my own path down the hill
I will never go up again.
The brilliant moon rises too, marking time
to reap what I sow, to harvest
my rutted field
and place the harvest away for the coming solstice to feed and bleed upon in the dark nights.
The leaves subtly a shade less green, less alive, pushes
thoughts of my own waning lighted candle
growing so soft it has no purpose.
The rustle of the wind in the drying trees
blows through me as well, warm from the hot late summer day
but will grow cold as my heart slows to a nullified quiet, my thoughts fade to grey