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




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