September « 2019 « Mark M. Redfearn

A wind from the north—

the wanderer within me

knows he must move on.

Early in autumn

only a few leaves have dropped

from my cherry tree.

First week of autumn—

honeybees gather nectar

from the last blossoms.

Midmorning coffee—

I sip from an old stained cup

that was my father’s.

Autumn afternoon—

a dog leaves a yellow stain

on some browning grass.

Autumn afternoon—

yellow chrysanthemums bloom

where the sidewalk ends.

How many autumns

will God pour into my cup

after this one’s drained?

First day of autumn—

I count only two red leaves

on my maple tree.

Last day of summer—

a dove and her plaintive song

bid each leaf farewell.

A cottonwood leaf,

finally losing its grip,

flutters to the earth.

Mark M. Redfearn