“Why do we have this desire to tease the innocent?
Is it envy?”
― Graham Greene
Is it a mere figment of the imagination. . . the poplars are turning yellow.
Walking past the closet, senses grow anxious. . .
Eyeing the tucked away browns and rusts, colors now beckon for a taste of change. . .
A small voice deep within asks, is it time?
Greens now yellowing, dry and brittle, scour the yard. . .does the recent winds signal a shift?
It’s early yet. . .dog days relentlessly nip . . .
yet something, which no one can put a finger on, stirs within–
a feeling of agitation, perhaps a tinge of the unsettling.
Out from under the unyielding sun, a tiny deviation presents itself
A bit of hope?
Or. . .
just a bit of red where it should still be green. . .