Over the remembered fence
the vines of midsummer drape
their leaves pocked with
a gentle blight
hinting at the time of the season.
I am back in the bower
where the light shifts
and we hear our voices
over the endless cups of tea.
We do not see last year's sparrows
kicking up sand
in the shade where
a bug skitters down my arm.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment