Summer-choked grass stirs,
In a mid-September breath.
And the groggy flowers wake
As clouds pass above.
The world snaps from its tepid doze
At the gentle prodding of apple-laden boughs,
While birds cry
Their sharp goodbye to the north.
And dancing with the bone-brittle leaves,
And lingering on the cinnamon-scented air,
Is the peaceful chill,
The tree-whispered voice
Of Equinox.
In a mid-September breath.
And the groggy flowers wake
As clouds pass above.
The world snaps from its tepid doze
At the gentle prodding of apple-laden boughs,
While birds cry
Their sharp goodbye to the north.
And dancing with the bone-brittle leaves,
And lingering on the cinnamon-scented air,
Is the peaceful chill,
The tree-whispered voice
Of Equinox.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
DiamondFire
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