The Turning Point

Philip Scott Rader © 2006

This is when the summer ends,

that certain feel, the air, the softened light

that greets us on awakening, calling like a ghost,

who whispers, “change”.

I gather summer thoughts

like rumpled sheets upon

a slept-in bed of sweaty dreams,

renew my thinking for the autumn haze,

remembering September's smoky pawl

that morn not long ago, and say a prayer for perished souls

and flowers crushed before their bloom,

for autumn tears and widows weeds that blow.

There is a silence, now, that hovers,

begging break, a plea for ringing bells,

for laughing children, next year's flowers,

praying they're allowed to bloom.