I am these annuals drying in the window box And the leaves blushing on wall climbing vines Or yellow-paled in the mirrored trees, For I too tire, well-seasoned in my own falling.
With reflecting branches just barely,
And red decreasing leaves framing Those double panes home warming fairly, Sentry window is falling proclaiming.
Though retreating mist still clings to the eastern dunes,
And sailboats yet tug against moorings in the outgoing tide, The rising sun is below the horizon by but two degrees, And soon will end dawn’s dreamy promise of escape.
First bright sightings of the shops On Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau Most entice sojourners When occurring within The tunnel’s enclosing twilight.
This summer’s sunrise Aflame above and below - Morning glorious
One life through two trees Locked in unending embrace – Hallowed matrimony
In the garden in the back by the fence, Toward the end of the narrow brick path And near the shade of the bordering oaks, The butterfly hovers in silence. Skimming salvia, lantana, and milkweed, Sampling flowers, cluster to cluster, It alights on a young fire bush Not two feet in front of me. It spreads its wings out and then down Till they lay on the orange red blossoms. Fingers crossed, it will stay for a while; I suspect I’ll not move till it’s gone.