poetry & things

This painting

I will tell you these things about the sky

and of summer going into fall, of berries nearly gone

the mountain ash trees green, gold and changing.

The yellow waxwings that perch beneath

the heavy laden leaves, cool

amid an autumn storm.

Half the sky is impossibly grey

then further away, turning black charcoal

a place where thunder is born, booming.

The other half, still deciding what to wear today

changing from pink, purple, blue

crashing its way into these luminous hills

meandering in sync with birds over the river

until the sun comes, igniting the clouds

on fire with red again.

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