The fireflies are dark. Katydids are quiet.
In the orchard, fruit fall startles deer.
Wind chimes sound oddly dull single notes.
Window cricket singing a death song too early.
Temperature falling, I pull blankets around us.
Sometimes when I am writing a poem in the ronka form, it just won’t fit into the little 7X5 box I created.
Here is one of those poems.
Summer is only a season.
We teach,
and then we are gone.
What more can we do
but plant a few seeds
and hope for rain?
An elegant name for what is often
considered a weed. Wild carrot. White flower.
It recalls a runner my mother placed
on the dining room table for holidays.
A red drop from a wine glass.
These mild, like summer, autumn days float
with gossamer clouds and filmy spider webs
moving slightly in the breeze and geese
wedging to the lake overhead as I
take off my goose-down vest and rest.
“Goose Summer” is a Middle English term for this kind of late summer weather. See my etymological explanation at whynameitthat.blogspot.com/…indian-summer-gossamer-and-goose-summer
Writing the Day 