Sunday, September 01, 2013


The moaning, howling wind tosses the leaf-remnants
Of summer, fighting to tear them precipitate
From their branches, and cast them forlorn
On the shuddering ground.
A million lost voices wail their lament into the storm-face,
Sobbing and crying, begging to be found,
To garner comfort and acceptance before the summer
Disintegrates and shatters into the greys and rustic
Hues of autumnal death and decay.
No season of fruitfulness heralded here,
Rather the rain washed grief of rotting leaves
And broken twigs, caressed by dying grass
And the last gasping sobs of summer days.

(c) 2ndwitch, 01/09/13


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