There are two last sprigs of honeysuckle blooming,
canna leaves are brown-edged and tattered,
the cats are playing hide and swat
as dusky fall weather grays.

The clouds seem to be racing somewhere,
palm fronds rustle and clank,
season turns round, singing of days
when warmth will seem far away.

Church bells begin to ring, pealing with longing voice,
melancholy fills the moment, creating chills
I can’t explain. The wind swirls about my being
as cats tumble and play.

Erin Moen
11/03/03
Copyright 2003 ©