
September
The forest is breathing
on the edge of September,
but the trees are creaking
like time-worn bones.
The turn is here again,
With is no fanfare,
just a dusting of lost leaves,
sprinkled on forest ways.
Still, there is a glint
in the tree tops, enough
for life to thrive in,
a comfort, an affirmation,
that we are not leaving,
we are holding on,
wringing each drop of light
from every new dawn.
Derek Ross
I love the last stanza in particular!
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Beautifully penned Derek. Love the whole imagery held within the poem.
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Thanks so much Goff! 👍
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Pleasure Derek. Great write as usual.
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