Arctic tendrils creep down
Mingle with the dusty scents
Of ripening summer fields.

Graying trees gaze up
At soft mackerel skies,
And yawn, wondering how late it really is.

Monarch butterflies anxiously flutter around the flowers,
"Are we the Chosen?
"Is it our generation that leads the flight to Paradise?"
Skippers and blues laugh at them,
Heedless in post-coital bliss,
"Tomorrow we die, who cares if the cold comes?"

Day gets hot, but in my ear
I hear Autumn laugh softly
And whisper "Have patience, my love, I am coming soon."