Clover
The scent
of evening clover,
soft,
upon the evening airs,
summer closing
gracefully,
the day
hushed,
the night falling
swiftly,
upon the terrace stairs
for there
are lights,
and laughter
here,
the tinkling
of glasses
the afterglow
paling
as twilight
gently,
slowly falls
shadows lengthen,
stars whisper
silence,
silence,
as a last blackbird
scurries
and across
the garden
calls
And it’s beautiful
this night,
the first
of seasons
September
rising
Orion, high
above
the edges
of a sleeping
slumbering world
so stepping
deeper
into the garden,
under a flood
of constellation
skies,
I stood awhile
and listened
remembering
weeping softly
how time
and wings
of passing
had taken you
dear August
from the summer
of my morning skies.
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