September Morning

In the anticipation of fall colors,
There is a smell of the burning of summer’s last great triumph
The clouds over the shifting trees gild the ground with a web of drops
The fresh rain tastes of quarters dropped in the gutter and wet wool sweaters
The grass is spongy and in it’s green strands it holds tightly to the lost dreams of a fading season
The soft folds of the hills's silk skirt drift over the horizon 
The piece of peace that comes with september mornings finds a spot to rest in the deepest part of a lake
And all is still.