Light is dripping from the trees,

the nectar of July under a silver sky

collected by the air

is the breath that I take.

 

Could this be the season of fear that's talked of,

just a poison cup offered

by the mind so twisted

as to pervert all joy?

 

If so I am misled by what I see

and feel on this so special of days

when nature hangs full of promise

for the taking,

and the chattering whispers

are those of the doomed.

 

Or is it that I am lucky

to see this special light

the concubine of glades

who offers herself so freely

to the heart that's open

not to be possessed by shades.