By accepting you will be accessing a service provided by a third-party external to https://www.callingallpoets.net/
Sunrise through the Silver Maples,
caught by Rose of Sharon,
this late August morning.
Meditation on dark roast,
and Summer ghosts,
but the little piper chases
the final sibilant one from
my candle-charmed garret.
The long, searing trail
from July to September,
has grown shorter.
From my table of swooning thought,
I am called by the scarlet emissary,
directing me, not only to his joy at Sunrise,
but contentment that we are not yet clawed
by Winter's frostworks, from where
he and I have often conversed.
August 23, 2014
Poetry has the last word.