the languid race begun
as autumn’s reds and rusts overlap
the faded emeralds and broken leaves of summer
mountains curve
as if drawn by a child’s hand
in sets of seven, four, and five
sculpted by happenstance
and painted with van Gogh’s brush
the path folds and rolls like ribbon candy
the last of the wild flowers bloom
toes still tucked in the rock wall
what am i waiting for?
my thoughts to slow
to the pulse of cicadas
the sun to lift my chin
like the face of a flower
and warm me into fall
-Janey Pease
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