by Eric Rosenbloom
Late summer still and sere
Awakened by the wind's caress.
Fullness, bursting, rich with produce,
Hum of bees, a chorus rise and fall of crickets,
Hint of autumn withering in the still,
In the brittling veins of leaves,
In long attended fruit now picked
Before the touch of rot can blossom.
In perfection, emptiness looms,
The cold stark landscape of bare black boughs,
Dry stalks no longer holding flowers proud,
White coverlet of snow to shroud her sleep.
But first a stirring wind
Is warmed in her touch,
She opens to draw him in,
His cooling breath revives and calms,
And joined, she welcomes rest.
And sated, all the world lies with her, waiting,
Waiting for the light she hides inside,
For pushing away of blankets, opening of windows,
Rushing waters down familiar paths,
The soft green tipping of old branches,
Suns held high to flee the shades.