
the first cattail heads
have erupted in fluff:
autumn in progress.

the first cattail heads
have erupted in fluff:
autumn in progress.

a plain, green plant
crawls with bees-o-plenty:
despite no bright blooms.

aquatic plants grow
out to the swift waters,
forming a clean edge.

such light green leaves
for the end of summer:
doesn’t that tree know?

it’s cool & rainy,
but the canopy is green:
last days of summer.

Pac-Men multiply: sought by too few upside-down lily “ghosts.”

weary sunflowers
turn their backs on the sun:
heads bowed.

late Summer:
the last days before
reed heads fluff.

buds & blossoms,
in vibrant red, gussy up
a dreary cityscape.
When I see some willows - down by water's edge, drooping in the moonlight, or swaying in the breeze - I think of Blackwood's tale of Danube canoers who land upon an isle to camp among the willows. And will the willows that I see, mark wicked ground, and what will they become when darkness makes its stand? It's such a pretty tree... now all but ruined for me, and that is story's power to sweeten or to sour.
For those interested in reading the referenced story:
The Willows by Algernon Blackwood — free at Project Gutenberg