Like no other this flood light
of a vellum hue,
a kind of marquee for the hay ride
going on below, at Hell Creek's rustic Farm.
The limbs upon losing parts of their pillow talk
a kind of Peyton Place
from all the chit chat of chameleon green
visiting them daily.
Falling in a ballet
these retreating leaves
of such a honey, brandy complexion
waver in the night zephyr.
You know the one, that seems to be
getting its orders from
the sparkling, seasoned orb
sitting next to it.
You're transported, pronto
to an Autumn's invitation of
the settling
of the senses.
Once a year a posse
receiving its direction, again,
is gearing up to bathe you
in that Harvest moon light! |
