The Wintergarden l
I know you don't care. Do you care?
when I call it uncanny, the way
they continue to continue, far into Fall
under a dim, day moon
under a denim sky of washed-out blue
cirrhus-streaked, here and there,
which means it will be cold soon
each little ball
opening like a fist,
crickets ulullating in the mist.
Opening sans-cesse
one upon another after another
whispering how the show must on:
fringey purple cosmos; endlessly ambitious
sea-blue convulvulus, all more or less
wrung from tendrils, less or more
conforming to the trees they wind upon,
dew-strung with little crystal pears
but never so delicious;
Hung between berries, that overnight
somehow have reddened bright, and shimmer-glinter
as if they meditated matchless summer-
that preferring, than to mull dull winter-
winter, such a bummer, such a bummer;
and those weird cactus flowers
blareless clarions that saprophyte
the green, offering blue their reds and white
like morning prayers.
Oh, ho, the summer....
poem by Morgan Michaels
Added by Poetry Lover
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