Autumn is coming, not just in the longer, dark nights,
I smell it in the colder, crisper wind that rustles branches
still carrying summer green, in the silence where a crow
cawing is the only birdsong your ears hear. So I turn
to reading Frost, his poetry to me always of the ending
of things, of what will remain when things change,
fragments of summer among red and gold withering
fall, in the desolation when the cold wind carries
off the red and gold and dark hours spread like
the snows that are to come. I prepare myself,
even when, suddenly, a flycatcher sings.
14.08.2024
Poem Poems Poetry Verse
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