Words of a painter about art, painting and other thoughts about life, death and things that get in the way. I began my blog 2010.
Saturday, September 28, 2013
September 28, 2013 Sunday Whirl #128
First Frost The air is chilled A white frost Has spilled Where the mesa's Sharp edges sparkle I do not know the exact Hour this happened Nor who is responsible Perhaps unbidden Ghosts from the hillside Gathered to create Such a transformation The sky a pristine Blue patch Over nature's Temple I fall to my Knees to worship The bees Did not swarm The Russian Sage This morning Later when The sun has Warmed the air They will come Prompt: ghosts, exact, patches, gathered, worship, spill unbidden, hillside, where, swarm, edges, sharp