Poems August Running

November

Inland field, a lily pad imparts tall in water.
Fall felt cold at night;
Warmed the days bright;
Outside yellow;
Color trellis trills its own toward tired
Guest, grey-brown.

Wisp clouds, sun-setting, slow, white;
Yellow rim;
Clear thrill to mist; white is a thin fog.
Ridge hill never called a word,
Green sun hazy, here not there;
Far from set.

November is a new season.
Here red love mine is at peace.
Books tell books,
Fifty almost.
On the bickers, fir high.
Once, twice;
Pay, re-read;
Library;
City blocks;
Old mat trials jibe;
Hid individuality;
Character;
Alive, time, ideas, art, life;
Work, fog, before war's back.
Is perfect time, weave;
View mine;
Row, line;
Tree, pines;
Decide why
You
Are sun.