Summer is Dying, Casket of Love

Summer is Dying 

 

Outside, summer is dying into fall,

and blue daddy petunias sprout ears

hear the beginning of night chills.

In their yellow window box,

they cuddle up and fear death together.

The balcony sliding door

is poorly insulated, and a cold draft

creeps into all the spare rooms. 

 

 

 

 

 

Casket of Love 

 

This moon, clinging to a cloudless sky,

offers the light by which we love.

In this park, grass knees high, tickling bare feet,

offers the place we pass pleasant smiles.

Sir Winston Churchill would have

saluted the stately manner this fog lifts,

marching in time across this pond

layering its ghostly body over us

cuddled by the water’s edge,

as if we are burdened by this sealed

casket called love.

Frogs in the marsh, crickets beneath the crocuses

trumpet the last farewell.

A flock of Canadian geese flies overhead

in military V formation.

Yet how lively your lips tremble

against my skin in a manner no

sane soldier dare deny.