September at Dusk

I've always loved the fall. There's a poignant, almost sad beauty in the dying foliage, the geese flying in arrows overhead, and the sound of the insects' last heroic hurrah in the weedy grass and woods.  

I like to take a walk after supper and the other evening, I started writing this little poem as I walked.  (As I'm typing this, I hear a hawk calling outside.)


September at Dusk


I pause in my walk

To look for the hawk

That whistles so wistful and high


To study the trees

The flush of their leaves

And gawk at the glowing red sky


Now that autumn's begun

The slant of the sun

Lies low like a long crimson blush


And the maples look tired

Against twilight's fire

Limbs torched and bloodied by dusk


When leaves whisper and sigh

Is that how trees cry?

Do they mourn because summer has passed?


And as shadows grow long

Are they sad summer's gone

Like a fugitive, vanished too fast?


Do trees wish that summer could last?



Be Well and Good Luck,

Martha Maria 

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