My floppy bag sufficient to fit all the harvest:
in it I also gather eggshells discarded by chicks.
I lay your boots and spade neatly to rest inside the shed.
Played the gardener enough for today – this week – this month.
So easy to forget in today’s sun-stillness:
those moments I flare in nervous thrall –
when is the shift to sandstorm season?
It’s there in the echo of last cuckoo-call.
Musing about the change of seasons with a little help from Sappho tonight. Please join us over at dVerse Poets Pub, where we are celebrating that wonderful free-forming, room-for-all event that is Open Link Night.