Pears lie yellow on the ground.
Hornets move slowly over them,
cool and drunk on their nectar.

The sun is low in the western sky
painting every tree, every bush
every blade of grass amber.

Long afternoon shadows fall
from the golden rain tree
onto the barn, gloriously rugged.

Morning glories, white and pink
climb the nearby antique chair
as leaves faintly move

on fragrant air currents
bringing to me a longing
familiar, cyclic and un-named.