Indian Summer



 eons ago,
when they were  younglings
they noticed one another,
blinking hard at their good luck
they were swept away
ripe and rolling,
 seeing the hand of god
cleverly filling their basket
with stars and seashells.

in time, a nest
feathered with fledglings
weathers hail and firestone,
 the walls never whispered
 their flesh and bone secrets,
now the years are rudely slipping away
and all they can do is warm their hands
with the gentle flame of november
igniting indian summer –

fleet and furious.


©2013 Wabi Sabi
Sunday Whirl
Poets United




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