Summer's Bones Poem by John Scully
Summer's Bones
Close down the summer curtain
and shake the leaves and flowers,
allow the autumn ripples in
the slanted sunlight
the dead stump leaves of mist.
The kiln of summer's heat
now charred to ash
her bowels withered old in folds
of flowered dresses, mottled red.
And grasses stricken by the frost
prolong the Advent melody
as out to pasture, a season gone and been
awaits the snowy Christmas scene.
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4/27/2024 1:15:46 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Brilliant. Such a strong sense of time and our changing perceptions of it, according to material things.