Feeling Autumnal

Discarded,
brown and rumpled,
slotted and sorted
by dewy blades of green,
soaking arriving radiance,
refugees cloister,
purposed to mother.

I feel this autumnal tide
wash me out of summer.
Humidity shudders.
Breezes brush the lines of linen
where a child once played,
fading in light.
Mother calls me, too.


"While I'm Dying...(A Soliloquy?)" 
"Leaching The Soil" 
"Waken Me?" 

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Last year for this Autumn collection before permanent deletion from account.