Gladly the marigolds smile into the first gentle breezes of Autumn. Angels watch me cavort in a field of four leaf clovers. Nature as vast tundra of self reflection. Nature as guilt and verdict. Nature as a mother possum, hissing at me as she brings her babies across the distant fence. Ignore the deer here. They badmouth me – gossips all of them. Autumn will find me older, aged like a hope and as lined as paper.
Miniature Moon 