The sky was a sanctuary-dome blue,
filled with pearly puffs of cloud one imagines
pillowing chubby cherubim
Grass was the lush dark green of springtime,
ironically well-watered this year,
thick and long, a bovine’s dream.
Leafy branches swayed overhead in time
to the gusting of a September breeze, a song
sending cascades of falling leaves swirling
through invisible trills of eddies and currents.
Summer escaped on those balmy winds
and in the soft afternoon sunshine
and tangle of late-blooming gardens,
while autumn crept in unnoticed
behind innocent cloud billows,
on the wings of visiting Monarchs,
under the curled leaves of the last browning rose.
© 2003 Bonnie Manion