i run my fingers through dull blades
still soft and green from summer's sun
wind is a misleading whisper:
high and low pressure mating;
the breeze that lifts strands
of chestnut hair on tiny fingers
rips fistfuls of ripened leaves
from their grasp
veiled by the sweet scent of the earth,
the grass, the blossoms stealing rays...
summer slips out past the struggle with fall:
subtle aromas of beauty and peace
