These are the last of Summer’s flowers.
They watch their season go.
They’re leeched of life and struggle
as their colors fade to ‘no.’
Their perfume is not redolent.
Their vibrant petals curl,
turn into brown and sepia,
then plucked by windy swirl.
The icy winds of winter come,
to see them to their end.
And it will die next to its tree,
and lay next to a friend.
Until the springtime breezes block
the grave-cold winter’s eyes,
the last of summer’s flowers bloom,
themselves a worthy prize.
On her garden bench she smiles.
In her eyes, no cunning wiles,
only shyness.
Humble, sweet
innocence I will entreat.
Quickly to one knee I go,
hearts beat fast, but time goes slow.
Everyone she knows above,
witness this display of love.
See the ring here,
diamond bright.
Yes, I love you!
Yes, it’s right!
Say you love me too, my dear.
Don’t let my heart dangle here.
Lovingly she takes my hand,
tenderly slips on the band.
Fading now, the vision’s gone.
It’s her grave I’m standing on.
Springtime’s redolent perfumes
always linger
where she blooms.
This seemed to strike a chord…let me know what you think. Enjoy.
I look
forward
to spring
I look
backwards
to run
I close my
eyes
when walking
and try to guess
what I
bump
into
I look
sideways
standing,
waiting for
the bus
I look
up at the stars
in the winter
sky
and
I look
forward
to spring
© Alfred W. Smith Jr.
I look forward
to spring.
I look backwards
to run.
I close my eyes
when walking
and try to guess
what I bump into.
I look sideways
standing,
waiting for
the bus.
I look up at the stars
in the winter sky,
and I look forward
to
spring.
Beyond Panic 