I could not think of finer days,
than those defined by mist and shine.
A pallid sun aloft an earthbound cloud.
The slow trudge to winter,
temporarily halted, or so it seems.
Nature’s last stand before the storms,
That strip the trees and sodden the earth.
Fungi peak through tufts of sedge,
Created in silence in tremulous night,
last refuge of a blackbird’s song,
released by the matins of a jay’s harsh caw.
On morning paths, ghostly strands invisible to the eye,
lightly caress cheeks, dew clings to advancing feet.
Berries swollen by a summer sun glow brightly in bush and bough.
And apples brought low by an invisible worm,
hang sullenly amid the leaves,
autumn’s last decoration before the fall.
