"Seasons Change "

"Seasons Change"

Greg Budig 2020

Mornings become cooler. 

Days become short. 

The old maple out 

front, straight trunked with 

roots set firmly like fingers  

in the soil, is showing its age. 

Freckles of orange dot its 

once lush leafy green mane.

August was demanding,

it is time to rest. 

The signs are around me,

the breeze tells me so. 

Decidedly cooler, 

Canadian kissed, good 

for the soul.  It feels 

like light jackets and 

bonfires at night. 

Windows wide open,

 curtains softly breath.

Summer is slowing. 

The pulsating garden,

once heavy with life,

looks a little faded with 

yellowing leaves. 

Cucumbers stunted at 

the end of their vines. 

Their life source is 

now a million miles down. 

Tomatoes struggle to 

ripen plump red. 

The bird feeder bustles 

with fluttering wings. 

Chickadees soon come 

and go. Nuthatches amble 

along with the finches. 

The wrens no longer 

chatter, where have they 

gone? Like the robins 

they no longer care.

Butterflies circle aimlessly.

Magenta cosmos nodding. 

Monarch orange against 

deeply blue sky. 

Elegant swallowtails,

a viceroy or two,

pretending to be bitter 

for some clueless bird.

Wings become restless,

their season is passing. 

 

Days become golden. 

Skies turning bluer. 

School buses grumble,

their brakes screech

in the still morning air.

The signs are around 

me, August turns to 

September, how quickly 

we forget seasons pass,

seasons change. 

The End