Yellow Quince (Poem 289)

Rainfall builds a rhythm on a 

dove-gray morning, 

only days after the barn has been filled, 

ripe autumn promise hanging,

like languid inspiration, in the air.

It is not so long since the sharp, yellow 

quince, heavily perfumed, tugged limbs 

toward the ground;

the fig's smooth white bark and fragrant 

leaves flirted with dreams of its own 

sweet, seeded flesh;

and striking, stippled-pink dahlias and flowing white jasmine coaxed songbirds 

to perch and explore the shady undersides 

of a glossy stand of azaleas.

Now--long after the delight of spring 

flowers, their pale, delicate tendrils 

probing 

fences, trees, and walls-- jays argue 

over the last, fat blackberries hidden 

in the hedges, 

and the tenderness of dandelions and willows 

gives way to earthy hues of nettles and oak.

(c) 2014, by Hannah Six