|from Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tales 237|
Crisp air where I wave goodbye
in the north window, open for a breath of fall.
Rust colored needles collect on the gray barn roof.
Poison ivy leaves climb artfully up the stately trunk
of the tallest pine, enticing in shades of scarlet,
crimson, and shocking stop-sign red,
fading to russet and hospice.
A rusty sundial bath, once a trendy verdigris,
where birds sip by a center sailboat,
rests on the last capstone in the wall, recalls
a ripe peach sunset. Leaning out
to drink its’ nectar, saturate my soul,
intoxicate my spirit. Rose tinted
possibility sinking fast, over in moments.
Fingers chilled, holding my pen
on the window sill to capture fleeting thoughts –
meeting the peaceful stare of scarlet ivy
sucking its’ poison juices back into hairy stems,
appearing to lie dormant in bare branches,
innocent in remission – but ready to skirmish -
to spread its’ terror cells in any season.