Green sings, lawn sings, trees sing, birds sing, the bees
and flowers sing and why not? It is the end of Spring.
Last moments, last remnants, the smell of fresh mown
lawn sings of summer corn to come, echoes ripped green
husks, cling of silk, the exhale of harvest, this moment sings
counterpoint to what is to come — long nights, the wane of light.
Grand skies and golden corn cannot conceal the turn of the wheel;
Spring is for the young, and all the fruit of Summer cannot replace it.
Peterborough Poets 