Trees are ghost outlines,
frost coated.
Far off, along the lake, the train
hoots a melancholy call.
My feet crunch on a path
that was soft yesterday.
I cannot see the sun,
but it is there.
Perhaps things will be brighter
tomorrow?
poem- late bloomer September 26, 2016
Autumn is here
Trees are red tipped or golden.
Mornings are frosty.
And finally the cosmos,
three feet high green lace,
is budding.
A slow universe,
taking its time to unfold
summer pink blooms
on my porch.
Autumn is here,
but
better late
than
never.
Shawn L. Bird 