Harvest

 

Cinnamon leaves gather

in a hush of early dusk.

The last of summer moths flock

to the lightbulb on the porch

wings insistent on warmth.

In the air a slight tremor, a shiver as September

takes it’s place at the helm of the year

and elbows August out.

The moon as red as a beet

peeks from the clouds

its blushing face a mirage

drowning

in a bucket of water.