Mornings painted pale in dawn that wakens later still.
Shadows splashing quietly the colors ‘cross the hill.
A chill that hesitates, then lingers, clinging to the light.
The dying call of moving birds in some pre-destined flight.
Barren trees that blush away their robes to drape the Earth,
Hiding life to offer warmth in cold from death to birth.
Rocky paths that soften from the tears of saddened trees.
Silent walking, seasons talking, warnings from the breeze.
Fading clouds of mist that melt to soften smoky days,
Cool inside of damp, embraced by early evening haze.
Golden fruit of summer ripe beneath a crippled sun,
In a garden, solitary, summer’s death has now begun.