the end of august

autumn takes the last
of its luke-warm tongue
and warps it around
the soft seashell ear of summer.

if trees had eyes
september's breeze
would cause them
to roll back into the
forest's canopy. half appauled

by the pleasure, not knowing
what it could possibly mean
having been
seduced into letting go.

for each season without a lover
the heart finds new ways
to compinsate: a bottle of wine

and a good book, a hot bath
or a cold shower.

come spring, the woods give way
to wild flowers, and it starts
all over again. an ephemeral

race for beauty and grace, as your

chances for love close in around you.