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.
I like the way this poem falls back in my consciousness!
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