poetry & things

In September

Walking the dirt path, down around

the gold brown hills that spill into the orchard

apples baked in the oven, sun of summer

and in September they are done

red, we dressed with honey, cinnamon

the air was bliss, the trees, the ancient harvest

with baskets full and too our hearts had overflowed

this was a place we called heaven and now you are in the trees

in the sweeping fields of turquoise seas, in the stars that never cease

here, where you once imagined and could only dream to remain as ever

Dedicated to my brother Curtis and all those departed from the earthly plane

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