On The Swing

Oil Ink Monotype on Paper
9 x 6" each

On The Swing in the East Garden

Cicadas raucous scratching
warns August to make way.
I hate and love their eerie racket
in these full-starred, clear sky nights.

These end-of-summer days
morning fog refuses to lift.
Trees ghost-whisper
on late warm wind;
arching branches
will soon drop leaves.

I mourn the death of the season
and though there is relief
in the heady scent of cooling ocean air
and new-lit fireplaces,
I taste the parting on my lips.

The sweet has turned
melancholy and even
your last touches, dearest friend,
hands gentle on my sunburned back
applying aloe, and your breath
blowing me cool,
the memory of that
does not assuage this
sense of loss as sun leaves early
and I'm left behind
in the dimming of
the reds, the aqua, purples, blues
abbreviated days.

- Rosalind Brenner