A waiting season
There were no birds or shadows under this nonchalant sky of October, I mourned yellow and beaded eyes on the pond - the slowness of floating. I consoled myself with the rust-painted reeds: pleasing like red apples on snow, but these months, I know, are a waiting for beauty; thinking of the times I was in the right place, only later revealing to me why. In the evening the lead grey clouds rolled into a gold wheatfield falling of a sunset, twilight burning from the white unused drift of the day. LJ Ireton, 2024