The Last of the Sunflowers
It’s almost here, can you feel it?
Here comes Autumn, swirling her gowns around Her,
her train of golden, burnt umbers and crimson reds
flashing and tumbling in cyclones of whispers
and fables of the forest
The kitchen yard is littered
with crisp cornhusks and tangles of golden silk.
The last of the harvest has been put up
jars shining in their cupboard with military precision,
waiting to splash Summer back onto the table
The hawk screams, heralding Her arrival
and Blue Jays announce the return of the Golden Lady
They shudder before Her musky breath,
lifting and lofting upwards to better catch a glimpse
of Her entourage
The last of the sunflowers bow their heavy heads,
darkened moons of seeds,
ready to pledge their allegiance to Her re-birth
Their fringe of gold flutters stiffly in the fragrant breeze
She is here…
Copyright J. George 9/2008
