My September Song

This is my familiar season,

summer’s rough edges worn

like the teeth of sway-backed horses.

Sunflowers stand in rows, taller

than young men in uniforms, set

to topple in the first cold wind.

Red pine boughs heaped like yesterdays

on the burn pile, awaiting the first snow.

My head, too, gone to seed,

my heart among fallen aspen leaves.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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