Jeffrey Hull

The clouds curl up like kittens soft and gray,
   And wind their tails as young ones will
   In drowsy snuggle 'round the sleepy hill,
The looming low horizon of the day.

Spry artist Autumn dances down the slopes,
   Her leafy pallet blazing red and gold;
   With splashing strokes she marks the season tolled
And dapples on the green of Summer's hopes.

Still sleeping Winter breathes a cool soupcon
   Of chilliness into the atmosphere—
   While days are hazy, harvest nights are clear;
How can there be another summer gone?


© 2005 Jeffrey Hull