Clouds rumble in, unexpected house-guests
to an otherwise quiet sky, pushing
through the door of a perfect summer day
to remind us nothing is ever perfect.
Cloaked in blue grey, under-layed with rain
winds speak in the flap of tarps
rushing oceans of grass
train whistles hanging too long in the wooden air.
Last year there were promises of return
from faraway places; now faintly evaporated
trails of words catch and crumble
like dry leaves in their annual exodus to grass.
All that is green today will soon be yellow.
We hibernate as deeply as winter bears
while stars unclothe themselves slowly
to a grim, voyeuristic night.
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