
long after we’re gone
the “fruit” of this crepe myrtle
remains as litter

long after we’re gone
the “fruit” of this crepe myrtle
remains as litter

ever widening
my circles stretches beyond
my limited ken

peach tint in the mist
reaching the fall equinox
my days grow shorter

sacred space
watching a flower
fall to the ground

an alien “moon”
appears in uncertain skies
nothing as it seems