A Last Look

The signs are unmistakable, and I will
Heed them.  I'm no fool, I hope.
The corn is yellow, growing brown,
The soybeans turning yellow, too.
The calendar provides its warning:
Mid-September has arrived, and fall
Is merely days away.  The air will
Become chilly, and the trees' leaves
Will turn color.  They'll expire
Operatically.  Time's growing
Short.  I've come outside, a gin
And tonic in my hand, the quintessential
Summer drink, to gaze upon the still-
Green leaves, the lushness of
A season ending, that one which
Means most to me, before the time
Of dying comes, and, after that,
The one of death, before I'm trapped
Inside the house, awaiting signs
Of life.





Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 28 times
Written on 2022-09-20 at 01:48

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