Branches break, deer leaps
Picking Summer's fine bouquet
Bells ring nine, all at once
an artist painting with words or a child scribbling madness with crayons?
Nature cries for you and for me. on my bald head, rain drops.
Walking through summer's smells of the past, rain on pavement, Summer's sweet perfume, bats feeding overhead as light falls from the sky, losing its battle with the stars. I walk in with a bunch of flowers, no vase to be found, and they end up on the counter, then in a glass of water. And I head back out into the light drips of rain, falling through the streetlights, a curtain falling down on the day. No drama on this stage, just the past peeking out from every corner and hiding behind each house I pass.
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