Note: another of a series of poems with the same title, to be scattered throughout a larger project called The Drift.
To the Tune of a Song Not Yet Written
Now we enter the season of our age
before summer’s end yellow leaves drift
haze floats between us and the foothills
still the sun is strong the rain when it comes
like the same words over and over
is not yet cold and when I look
between birds and hills I see the past
and am reminded of the future
Thank you Emily! We must raise coffee cups again soon.