Lucy Cole Gratton
The breeze, stronger than usual,
rumpled leaves, turned them inside out,
caused them to resemble other genus.
Summer was old, hot, tired;
sun baked red clay was dust
that clung to banks of gravel roads.
A lone crow flushed from the brush
stirred the dust, flew away
in a cloud like sifted flour.
Only days before, the rain left
the world feeling like a fish tank,
underwater, with oppressing humidity.
The sun, shimmered through muggy air,
caused sweat to run into eyes,
drip upon glasses on down turned heads.
Then, the heat dried out the dampness;
the moisture less air blasted faces
as if a heated oven door were opened.
Fall, a welcome thought,
anticipated with pleasure, but now
the wait was intense, impatience mounting,
chafing for change, in all things hopeful.