Things Come in Threes by Wesley Moore

Until they think warm days will never cease.

– John Keats, “To Autumn”

Like the faint semi-tragic scent of tea olive,
the epitome of ephemera, the butterfly flits
among lantana and disappears.
 
Hummingbirds hover; barred clouds bloom.
The retreating sun draws in its long shadows,
Then slowly dims the lights.
 
Bravo! Encore! Encore!
Four to six weeks the doctors said.
A sleepless night and then again the sun.

About the Poet:

A four-time winner of the Piccolo Fiction Open and two-time winner of The South Carolina Fiction Project, Wesley Moore’s work has appeared in various journals including Night Rally, The New Southern Literary Messenger, and The Upwith Herald.  A poem and story have been anthologized in From The Green Horseshoe: The Poetry of James Dickey’s Students and Independence: Stories from the South Carolina Fiction Project. He lives in Folly Beach, South Carolina, the so-called Edge of America.