It seems as though you are still summer
Running across wheat-rippled fields
Blowing dandelion seeds
Your bag is treasure hunt:
twigs, warbled flowers,
bugs, budding things-
mud-stained gifts
Your smile-
sun
First line of my poem: To the Light of September by W.S. Merwin
Posted for dVerse Poets Pub - Poetics: 9 Across for a count down, hosted by Laura Bloomsbury. A poem in nonet form. Thanks for the visit.
