The Last Days Of Summer

The sky is blue, blue indigo,largely swept with a cotton brush of cloud,  
as the wind gently comes into the scene, has given the canvas a spiritual feel,
Heaven is present, past and future,

This very time is reminiscent of some old Autumn, with a sun like lemon,
that pours down, tasting of sour venom, and leaves a scar deep into the bone,
This is Autumn, " that Fall" to its deepest bottom, and fathoms the soul of that man, that child now adult, in the clasp of his boyhood memories.
 
The time is quite about a mile from the town, Here where only a whooshing wind is heard,a jumping grasshopper is spotted among the piny shrubs,and prickly weeds.fluttering hither and thither passing an innocent life on earth...
 
It's October and it is fairly hot, and the pastures are parched by a late heat of Summer that sneaks stealthily inside the days of Autumn..
 
Critters left the dry ponds, and swamps, and followed the scent of a piny perfume.
Dragonflies here are mating in the under wood, between the pine forest
and a the rocky hill, where still, are some  carved spots,in the rocks that lowly whisper to my ear the laughter and the games we used to have...........
 
I wrote my childhood poetry in blood and flesh, in a natural life size on the mountains' side,with stones, into swamps, upon the trees, and in birds nests...
We had Summer getaways, as we would creep outside unseen, to swim in the dirty lakes,as the days were so long, we were so young. only locusts and birds chasing...in the teen heydays
,  
We did write concrete poetry that carefully, while growing adult, has been ripely softned into inked memories..