Magic Hour, Nine Twenty-Two
I gazed skyward into strawberry-laced
whipped cream, topping an azure cup
of heaven
as I glided down a street bearing
a philosopher’s name.
Summer has flown,
but no one told the cicadas,
for they continue their evening strain,
a throbbing rhythmic hum.
Vapor condenses on my windshield;
I pass a cemetery blanketed in fog,
a quilt obscuring memory stones
of love, loss, and hope.
It is my favorite hour of the day,
this time between times.
When color bathes the world,
transforming grey into lavender and
straw into gold.
The trees are tentative this September.
Reluctant to surrender the comfort
of their finery or exchange
their garments for what must soon
be shed.
Some yellow, some bronze peeks shyly
through a canvas of green.
But round the bend, one bold silver maple
stands amidst her envious peers.
She tries on her most elegant dress—
shocking red—
as she readies herself for the dance
of autumn.
Poetry | Christopher Kou | 
September 22, 2009 7:28 PM
Subscribe
….I love it!…I just love it!