Wonder-dust or Swansong or September...

It had to be...a heart-and-soul Swansong!Happy, happy, happy, happyLast Day of Summer 2023 Your light that splays like amber glaze and bathes the earth in mellow mist... Your wind-tossed bars where aster-stars twinkle like shattered amethyst... Your lanes that wind, goldenrod lined, to lure us from the beaten track... Your paradise for butterflies... ...and tousled wild-bloom bric-a-brac Your pendulum of pear and plum drip-dripping from our lips and chins... your brisker air that starts to wear the shriek of jay... and honk of geese... Your kitchen heat, pungent and sweet with basil, garlic, pickling spiceYour garden dish that makes me wish somehow, we could live each meal twice... Your humble toil of mercy's spoil like contrails of an upward spark...(a photo so we remember how tall the sweet corn grew this year!!!!) Your orchard stroll that thrills the soul with apple-dappled dreams come true... Your light that splays like amber glaze and bathes the earth in mellow mistYour wind-tossed bars where aster-stars twinkle like shattered amethystYour garnet splash of mountain ash berries against backdrops of blueYour orchard stroll that thrills the soul with apple-dappled dreams come true Your heady blur of lavender, of marigold and cricket laysYour subtle change as you estrange vistas of younger, summer daysYour pendulum of pear and plum drip-dripping from our lips and chinsA glockenspiel that starts to peal with farewell's reel as fall begins Your lanes that wind, goldenrod lined, to lure us from the beaten trackYour paradise for butterflies, and tousled wild bloom bric-a-bracYour hugs that war with tugs that roar with Bygone’s foregone victoryYour tango of longing and love, where mulled breeze strums the yellow tree Your brisker air begins to wear the shriek of jay and honk of geeseAnd in our hearts a hunger starts to prepare us for your releaseAnd the so-long, as your swansong suffuses morning, noon and nightRelinquishment sublimely rent with tender grief and sheer delight Your kitchen heat, pungent and sweet with basil, garlic, pickling spiceYour garden dish that makes me wish somehow, we could live each meal twiceYour humble toil of mercy's spoil like contrails of an upward sparkYour melodies that waft and tease a world tucked beneath early dark Your tangerine and gold and green as gourds are heaped in bright arrayYour crisp hello where dawn’s tableau gleams like a silver serving trayYour rains that spill from hill to hill, your chill that kindles wanderlustYour pleasure of so-much-to-love before you turn to wonder-dust September, you run wonder through us like shafts of sunlight through leaves You rush the skin that we are in with joys gathered like harvest sheaves While we begin to sense the thinning, winning ways of days of yoreYou wake in us an ache because of so much to be thankful for © Janet Martin Your tangerine and gold and green as gourds are heaped in bright array... Your crisp hello where dawn’s tableau gleams like a silver serving tray... Your rains that spill from hill to hill, your chill that kindles wanderlust... Your pleasure of so-much-to-love before you turn to wonder-dust... Yesterday's 'canning-first'-! SO yummy