Leaves blowing from the trees,
meandering down the street.
Summer’s ending…on the edge of autumn.
But the trees are not sending out their usual signal
of leaves brilliant in orange, gold and red
which normally illuminate my days,
weeks before they become heavy with the dread
of winter’s cold boring into my aching bones.
Dismal is the weather,
the wind’s power being thrust at me
like bullets from a pistol,
causing me to lock my door…
fearful of what will follow.
But as I gaze out the window,
what is that I spot, a lonely plant?
Could it be the last rose of summer,
dressed in its grandeur
like Cinderella for the ball?
sharing my free-verse
at
Brenda Warren's
and
Wordle #177
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