I’m on an October hillside, dreaming
about what summer used to be like;
about brunettes, walking on the beach,
their brown eyes not much darker
than their suntanned bodies, the sun
not much brighter than their smiles.
But it’s Autumn now and I’m far away.
I can smell cedar burning in the distance,
hear a breezy aria through sycamore,
and savor the burble of a mid-day brook.
I have been here before, been here
in this same exact spot in every season:
when the sun baked the drying grass;
when the snow drifted into the hollows
between the hills; when the last few
leaves, reddened, fell, and sailed down
to the perfect place that I now call home.
dVerse Poets Pub
~ Connections ~
(Thank you Merril, for encouraging me to create & post Revision # 5,253,544 of this poem…)