This autumn day’s spacious wrapping —
an airy nest of wide reaching branches,
a lookout for viewing the beautiful
procession of death.
Who will be the first to go?
The elder, leaves barely holding on
soon to be a skeleton of itself?
The burning bush bleeds a
puddle of scarlet,
The Dogwood flushed in viewing.
Each takes its turn in this mild
tenuous instant between
the severities to come.
Then the tender breeze …
The torch of Maximillian sunflowers
dims, electric blue statice prostrates,
while lumens of redbud leaves
drop as fallen stars.
This place, this day and I are lovers,
engaged in a last glance.