A Gossip of Asters

Patterns on my lawn
Are etched by the morning sun;
They are still for now.

 

The top of the bush
Disappears in the bright sun.
(Light trumps over form)

Gentle puff of wind
Touches my face and the leaves;
Kiss of gentle ghost.

 

 Frogs in the small pond,
Belching their silly chorus
Enthrall each other.

Gentle the sunshine;
How welcoming the shadows
On this perfect day.

A path in the woods?
Or is it a dry stream bed?
Or fairy highway?

Asters like to group
In funny little clusters
Of gossiping blooms.

Soft humming of wheels:
Bicyclist whirrs fast towards me,
Then he disappears.