To a new autumn

Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness rolls
in, yet nothing’s left for harvest. The scarecrow
becomes idle in the naked field, gazing the

indigo over, praying the happy bluebirds to crack
the sleepy backwater, come and return the peach
they’ve taken – the one and only nurtured by the

young maiden. Bed is bare. Only one pair of cold
feet’s left to spoon and scoop up the moisted joy
and tears of lust in action. Passion’s overdue;

wild reveries and memories, half-baked, sow their
seeds in the wrinkled bed sheet, holding breath, as
if Sibyl awaits the dew, and to be born and bud anew.

by Kathy