by Gideon Burton
I have too many days, too many skies
let go (attuned to antiseptic walls
or gaudy pixels easily despised) --
whole sunsets, clouds in pastel waterfalls
that etched in silence canvases of awe;
the silken weave of waning summer nights.
How could I face away? What wicked claw
has snared me in its clutches, as the bright
fluorescence of an August evening passed
into the mellow hues of breezy dusk?
So quickly fades the summer season, fast
upon us falls the winter, empty husk.
The western sky has summoned with its shades;
I’ll compass its dark glow before it fades.
Photo: flickr - joiseyshowaa
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