The world is most beautiful

On the edge of death:

Mid-October geraniums,

Profuse with crimson petals,

Dense green leaves,

Gather in tight families

Around the Aspen’s knee.

The roses,

Who struggled in heat,

Explode in bunches of white

Their outstretched arms

Wind loosely over the tattered fence.

The Aspen’s petioles fade to yellow,

Its leaves are framed with yellow,

The birds flittering among its branches

Tipping in gentle wind.

There is no snow, no stinging cold,

No blister of heat, or ankle-deep mud,

Only knowing it will all end soon,

The landscape will dull,

The skies will drop with silence,

As we’ll wait, and wait,

For what has already been.

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