Fall is the end of porch swings and blackberries,
a riotous end of wind-blown rain
of comfort falling away in red and orange.
The tendril of sorrow that sprouts in me
will not grow.
It is not the growing season.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I haven't written poetry in a while, so hopefully, this little snippet will prime the pump. Unless the pump has frozen over, which is possible. It's sooooooo cold here already.
a riotous end of wind-blown rain
of comfort falling away in red and orange.
The tendril of sorrow that sprouts in me
will not grow.
It is not the growing season.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
I haven't written poetry in a while, so hopefully, this little snippet will prime the pump. Unless the pump has frozen over, which is possible. It's sooooooo cold here already.