Top-of-the-line cameroon cigar,
An even burn from light to finish,
Not even a lighter-flick between,
One mile per hour breeze.
The songs of birds and insects washing over fields mostly golden,
Weeping willows draped over a small creek,
Sunshine just peeking through a ceiling of grey the last fifteen minutes,
Golden fire that eases up to your feet,
Drifts by like an old friend coming home.
Sipping coffee slowly,
As first leaves of Fall drift down from huge old trees,
They swirl across a country road in circles,
Tickled by Summer's playful good-bye breath.
The Equinox celebrated by life's song,
I am in quiet reverence,
The air of home I breath in,
Last-of-the-season dandelions speckle still-green grass,
Watching clouds kiss the top of an ancient domeless grain silo,
Witnessed by the old barn with a mossy roof.
There is something sacred in moments like this,
Something in my blood and bones knows these lands intimately.
I am feeling close to my ghosts as the season passes,
Another year drifting towards the snows of closure,
I am in this current of time,
Fishing for the best moments,
Another landed in my poetry's net,
Set to live long and glorious,
Resplendant in the color of serenity,
Tinted by a hint of angst,
Poignant in forever's unending universe.
The prairie flowers are my silent witnesses.
By: Daniel A. Stafford
(135th Street, Eaton Preserve, Plainfield, Illinois, USA)