Longing to hear
the strain on the hibiscus
blossom, I sit out on the step
and listen hard and long
to the wind through the branches
that still hold the buds.

It’s too late now to hear them
though they still hold tight
to their slender limbs. They appear
as young and green as ever
although they know otherwise.
They know what’s coming. Somehow.

I sit and wait though I know
it’s of no value. Hoping for
a late burst of summer is pointless
now for me, as well as for those buds.
Those stunning buds of white, now and then
pink; it’s past time for all of it.

Past time for summer, heading
toward winter. I sit and wait
as does the hibiscus, its buds
on hold though it looks
like time for a glorious departure,
like the sudden frost that surely comes

is surely only a rumor.

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Last post for everyone.

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onward,
T