The harvesting has begun,
a season of green growth ends
and the stalks are all that are left,
dead things, left behind like soldiers on the field.
In the hills, leaves change,
become bright and die.
You breathe in the morning fog.
mystery in the air,
the great concealer, a daily season of grey and color,
all lifted by a sun you cannot see
About this poem.
There have been times I felt like my life had come undone. Years and decades later, I realize it was just being rearranged for a new season.
The title was more fun than the poem. Double entendres are far more fun in poetry than life.
Waiting for the flowers
PS: The picture was taken in the next town over, in Rupert, VT.