It's Still Life

Summer Blue

The garden gate is slamming —
the wind’s picked up, and August
is disappearing into drizzle;
sets petunias on their weary way.

A march toward mould and mess.
Odd how a slick of rain melts
purple blossoms into streaks
that stick to your fingers and

stain you like a typesetter
in a print shop — summer stains,
permanently blue. Blue, yes,
it’s the end of summer blue.

written for Red Wolf Poems #320