As the days shorten, it becomes easier to catch the early morning light, even if you’re not a morning person. The colors of summer are fading, leaving a few hardy flowers, bright berries, wild grapes, and the changing leaves. Wind teases the fluffy milkweed seeds that cling for another moment to their pods, outlined by the sun.
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds.
The northwest wind comes and the yellow is torn full of holes,
new beautiful things come in the first spit of snow on the northwest wind,
and the old things go, not one lasts.