An early morning half moon sets, casting an eerie glow over
my waning flower garden. The fireflies’ warm glow is long gone.
Robins once inhabiting the high branch of the oak have left
only bits of shell in an empty nest, a reminder of warmer days.
The rickety wooden fence bends in the wind more than last year;
I sigh remembering the summer chores that have gone undone.
Thoughts of summer’s young laughter return, I wrap my blue scarf tighter
and watch children halfheartedly climb into their school bus still yawning.
I fold the newspaper on my lap; the weatherman is predicting
a chilly night. If only blankets could replace his strong arms.
Mournfully, I sink into shadows, cloaking in fraying memories.
Gray skies block the sunrise. I do hope spring comes early next year.
**a contemporary ghazal