The Last Day of Summer

TreeHouse in Portland

Tomorrow I break branches,
the green is going to go. . .
the summer has gone astray
I heard it sigh. . .
it sighed
as it slipped away
down the hill and to the right
and over the edge,
with
rainbow sheets in the cloud
next to the rays
of the dying sun. . .
the music of the edgy wind
has made me disconcerted
and I will pick up splinters
of unknown wood. . .
and the moss
over moss
is slippery
under my unwary feet . . .

but if you call me
I will come. . .
do you hear me in the wind ?
the edgy wind
as the dry leaves
cover the mystery of my bones
leaving me standing
fighting alone
against a passion
of a dynamic season. . .
a dying reason
to hang on to old branches
as the skies turn gray
and the waters begin to fall

## 

I planted a field of sunflowers . . .
in anticipation of the beauty,
and the seeds
because I like to eat them. . .

and
when the flowers began to droop
from fatigue of old age
and very heavy heads
I harvested them . . .
and laid those big seeded wheels

out on my patio in the sun
to dry. . .
and in the morning I rose early
to hear a roar of birds. . .
my sunflowers were being devoured. . .
and I was so charmed by all the little birds
that I watched them all day long,
hundreds and hundreds eating those seeds
until they were all gone

the seeds,

and the birds

##