Those plows, the gallant geese who leave us
paled in last anemic summer’s claws; while withered
flowers stand as sentinels to our anamnesis while we
might comprehend how fall means falling further until
stilled to silence, not stirred into sentiments of loss as we
have blended past with the present, while future is just the
time that’s stretched to count the coins we’ve kept
to pay the ferryman before the venom sap of winter’s
fruit has seeped through veins to halt our hearts.
Today we write nine lines poem for September with Laura at DVerse, either as word acrostic as I did or a nonet.
September 15, 2020