Summer's End
Already the air carries the scent
of dryness and decay. The woods
are heady with the must of wild grapes,
fragrant apples ripe for picking.
Here and there leafy maples ignite
like matches. In a scoured blue sky
the red-tailed hawk traces the shadow
of his circles over exhausted fields below.
The garden’s generosity is spent.
Only leeks and kale remain
to brave winter’s cold and snow,
like flowers on a grave.
Copyright © Maurice Rigoler | Year Posted 2023
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