It is the season of thistles.
Lakes grow in your eyes.
You have the look of one
Who has waited too long, like
A pale paper orchid,
Its brown cup
Languidly out-waiting
Even silence.

In the dark hours before dawn.
Look there, in the mirror.
You are beautiful even now
with life’s creases and
times graying hand.

Threatening, threatening.
Rain clouds are gathering.
It is the season of harvest
And the Owls shadow
Old barns, weather-beaten
Stagger in the wind.
The rain comes softly
Like mist on the bone-dry land