poetry & things

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, the way our hearts overflowed

this was a place we called heaven, but 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

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