by G. Jack Urso
in mid-August, the leaves begin to change
an almost imperceptible metamorphosis
then, the first flocks of geese honks its way south
by late-September the crickets still holding on
are stragglers who’ve yet to find mates
their once deafening sound slowly surrenders to silence
bodies of water release the warmth
they’ve gathered all summer long
as fog when the cold mornings set in
reaping, the Harvest Moon
gathers what was sown
leaving the Earth brown and withered
the summer season sloughs off
just as winter knocks
on the door of the autumn equinox
Spoken word version by the author. Hosted on the Aeolus 13 Umbra Sound Cloud channel.
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An ending, or a beginning. . .Enjoyed the poem, best poem I've read in decades. The pictures of the moon give the piece that tangible visual element.
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