Indian Summer
Indian Summer
Gregory Firlotte
Indian Summer lingers for a while
with a cascade of warm sunlight
caressing crimson, gold and russet leaves
with deep honey-colored rays.
The air is quiet like a whisper
and the earth still smells of late, late Summer grass
and a delicious heady scent permeates every sense.
Corn shocks stand and pumpkins sit majestic in hay-strewn fields
awaiting their autumnal purpose.
Crows caw in the distance as if to say,
"Look! Look at the splendor of it all
before it flees in cold November winds!"
Tender, sunny days slip into cool twilight quicker and quicker,
and well-loved and well-worn quilts are pulled closer and tighter
in an embrace that signals the bittersweet exchange
of one season with another.
It is a time to nap in a snuggled solitude
and with a thousand blazing hues hovering overhead
from leaves that must fatefully drift downward to earth
to rustle in piles around the footfalls
of anyone who has ever dreamed deep orange dreams.
O, Indian Summer! Yes, Indian Summer!
Please stay, we beg.
Let the warmth of your gentle hand
touch us just a little longer
as we walk in meadows and along paths,
still intoxicated with golden, sunlit yesterdays.
copyright © 2017 Gregory Firlotte
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