A dwindling summer
is the bittersweet prelude to fall.
I am watching it all,
just now, and sense already, on the tip of
my tongue, the tinny, metallic
taste of winter. In my mind’s eye:
the deep greens and subtler hues
fading to brown, drying up,
the sharp blades of grass pricking
the soles of my stubborn-bare feet,
knowing that in due time, drifts of snow
will cover all that’s left of now. My ears
are preparing for the day when they will
be turned to the laboring creak of
ice-burdened limbs, fixed upon the splintering crack,
then chuffing thud of branches,
falling to the snow-smothered ground below.
Such insidious, gray thoughts are snatched away
by the appearance of a swallow-tailed butterfly.
Slower than the hastening summer and onrushing winter,
she gently makes her way from leaf to blossom,
in a logical path she alone chooses, in full knowledge
of the passing of her season of glory.
So vivid the colors – the tints and shades
of her first morning still shine on her last.
I wonder at such persistence through the
fraying nicks of daily struggle,
and sigh at her beauty – at the
constant push and pull against the wayward
currents of air – of her split and tattered wings.
I wish you all, my Gentle Readers, the abundance of enough. . .