A Theory

The last of the sun's light plays across
The seahorse heads of thunder clouds
As we below slip into shadow. One more
Summer day is done. One more summer's
Near its end. The corn is brown, the soybeans
Browning. Fall's unwelcome chill will come,
But we are warm for now. Cicadas rasp.
We drink our rums and Cokes, and stare into
The rising gloom. Someone who's blind
Cannot describe the colors of the rose's
Fallen petals. Someone such as I, likewise,
Is ill-equipped to say what satisfaction
Is. I've never known it, but, if I had,
I believe it might have felt like this.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 80 times
Written on 2018-09-12 at 01:05

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josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
Perfectly, imperfectly driven to the last two lines that are a real zinger!

Poignant. I like it.

A very very tasty poem.