For Sunday Whirl

What Was

A black fly walks across my glass,
tastes where my lips just touched.
It spies me, and thinks,
Do you sting like a bee?

Cast an eye across this garden.
Vines limp as ghostly chains.
Seeds blown away with the sand.
Tomatoes hang like stunned eyes.

Summer slipped away,
just like rain through a net.
Either too hot, or too cold,
always too wet, or too dry.

The well went deeper and
deeper, it’s a thread-worn
poet gone dry. Worn out
words that won’t stay.

Autumn is pronounced:
What was.

for Sunday Whirl #469
[words: rain net seeds chain sand glass spy well deep think send stay]  © Misky 2020


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