It's not quite cloudy;
Irish call it a "soft day";
Soft September morn.
Green leaves are gleaming,
Reflecting the soft sunlight
Filtered by green leaves.
Green moss on my lawn
Taking over from the grass--
A soft victory.
Brown tree on the hill
Nestled among companions
Who will follow soon.
Clover, chicory,
Goldenrod and Queen Anne's Lace:
September harvest.
Always mystery--
What's lying around the bend;
Never know for sure.
Bright butter and eggs
Tempting me by the road side.
(I want to eat them.)
No trespassing signs
And padlock on the trash can.
(Air's still unfettered).
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