Prelude to winter,
this gray summer morning.
Forget about autumn;
it’s just a lovely distraction.
Pot holes are spilling last night’s rain;
mud holes make rainbows
with no pots of gold
except , of course, the promise of spring.
There is much ado in making the change
but the result is the same.
There is a time of bloom and a time of waiting
and there are mornings like this one,
rainwashed and gray, when even the sun