A late summer of relentless sun: yet hard green figs hide in the foliage. Some leaves are yellow and falling; perhaps they think their season's done. The cheeks of some fruit never flushed as though from tinctures of mandrake, never turned purple as nightshade. No chalky crimson where the heart might be, just a mossy silence sifting from farther away or overhead.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.