09 September 2021

This morning trees speak of fall coming.
Leaves are changing in the sun and tilt south.
A grey squirrel sitting saucily on the highest twig,
Looks for more tasty nuggets, some already amouth.

Cooler winds now ripple my still fresh blossoms,
Pink in basket, soon to be stirred with frost.
A noisy flock of geese overhead heading like flotsam,
Calling unsettled direction, all loudly following the lost.

Many will return in the spring to continue their lives.
Buds will break through into early rising light of new days.
So many will be reborn, and thrive.
My fall is coming. I feel the flame. I am ablaze.