Torn and Tattered Part of The Season
Sunday sonnet
The summer’s cooling off a little bit.
The dappled light is more pronounced this week.
The garden beds more torn and tattered. It
feels natural, this place thereof I speak.
It’s one of those short in between times, here.
One season’s rapidly come to a close.
The coming season’s watching you. It’s clear.
The summertime has said its last hellos.
The pause prepares us for the next big thing.
We jostle here for space. Won’t time abate?
Some grow, some die, beget, forget, birds sing.
Not knowing when the time’s up. What’s the date?
Time pauses for a moment as we wait.
Just one short break. Let’s go now. Can’t be late.

