That                                                             ­                                             
quiet                                                           ­                                     
whistle...                before the tempest,                              
a strand of hair lifted with stormy sent
advertising how time certainly went
without a signal or formal request.
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You recognize the Summer has nightfall
leaving fertile the ground for renewal,
where the spring seeded wild flowers were plucked
and first bronze tan burned leaves gently glided.
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Soon our feet will crack the crispy mantle,
lemon, carrot, cerise and chocolate,
colored sounds of the past paving our path
sedimented under frequent sun bath.
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Then, freezing cotton will carpet this earth,
we'll warm hands around hot beverages
from the plants we sprouted throughout these years,
covered in adventure collected cloths.
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But I'll mention Winter when I get there,
for now I need to garden...
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and                                     prepare!