Approaching Equinox

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.

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