Gray clouds, goblets of moisture hang in the air.
Orange leaves, sheets from multiple trees blanket the ground.
Hungry woodpecker, strips the suet feeder empty lickety-split.
Signs that the covenant with never-ending summer is broken again.
There is a sudden sense that some things are vital and some not.
You think you should name the things
but speech can be superfluous.
Instead, you write a poem on a golden leaf.
You are not sad when it blows away.
© 2104 Brenda Bishop Blakey
Words from (October 5, 2014) The Sunday Whirl: sense, speech, sheets, goblets, signs, vital, name, broken, away, strips, connected, poem
Image from Magpie tales, Mag #239: Autumn in Madeira by Jacek Yerka