Sonnet for Ides of August

Water lilies open blossoming pink.
Swallows skip gaily under cloudless blue,
mirrored in still river where seed pods sink.
Colors chameleon in leaves that grew
just last Spring, after maples spurted sap.
Autumn comes early to limbs under stress;
and lightning and wind will cause some to snap.
Squirrel ransacks beech-burrs, and leaves a mess,
yet acorns of oak, he first tests then saves,
knowing — and not knowing — how days must turn.
Sparrow elders counsel with sparrow braves
in climbing ivy, under eave and fern,
to teach the young how to hide at hawk’s call,
and grow new plumage when leaves start to fall.

This is late. My apologies, but I’m working on a new freelance writing project which is taking some of my time away from poetry.

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