At the window
by cricketjeff on October 13, 2009. © Jeff Green, All rights reserved
There’s a hint of winter calling like a whisper on the breeze.
Still to come the steady rustle, piles of leaves beside the path,
When the trees turn bronzed or golden and its sorry aftermath.
There are apples ripe for picking, hazelnuts and purple plums,
By the road the brambles offer tasty fruits to stain your thumbs.
In the cold clear sky of evening stars start shining extra bright,
Now the Moon hangs softly smiling for her longer reign of night.
An incongruous helicopter with a searchlight scans the ground,
There’s a sound of people running to whatever he has found.
But this horrible commotion cannot shake my reverie —
I am standing by the window weaving dreams from all I see.