The Sweet Cool

Sweet cool is the graying sky.

Touches of autumn come at last.

Gatherings of crows perch atop a tree.

Old men sit and remember their past.

Gentle is the rain as it dresses this Carolina field.

Soft in that it caresses the carcass of summer’s failed yield.

Notwithstanding; I now in its shadows surrender to the day.

I watch in somber reflection and inwardly pray.

I understand little; I understand too much.

I taste the falling rain from the graying sky.

I remember like the old men and succumb to memories touch.

Oh, Sweet cool is the graying sky…under which old men sit and cry.

J. Allen Wilson © 10/2007