The twisting vines of Pumpkins, frost kissed ripe, Patches on The very last of green.
Bookplates and bindings, Aging paper bleeding ink, Ghosts of days gone by.
The meaning of life, Dear isn’t 42. It’s you, The dog, hearth, and home.
Petals peeling off Pistils. Their fall swan song. Returning to earth.
The last of summerFruit clinging to the thick vine.Red ripe for plucking.
Taking tea, ritualin repose. Washing awayMy mortal worries.
Sleep, sweet slumberingSleep, Hypnos please take me deep.Come sleep, rescue me.