Flashpoint paradise, strawflowered wind
hums summer dreams. Autumn’s changing skies
swelter out the last low rumbled thunder
before winter’s biting cold.
It is quiet here… the calm before the storm?
Where are you, in your mind? Not here, where
we stand almost touching, yet distant
as the far flung purple hills.
The grass is stubble now, in this meadow
where our fingertips touched rainbows and toes
hovered over ground. The season is almost done;
hints of frost invade the air.
But, oh, those memories we made in spring
will sustain us through the winter chill
and the vi’lets in the meadow glen
will bloom again come April.