Soapbox

Moving On

I’m always sorry to lose
The smell of fresh-cut grass,
The drone of bees in the flowers
And the lingering twilight of summer evenings.

But I am equally fond of
The tang of dry leaves,
Trees ablaze on every hillside
And the brilliant cerulean sky
Found only on certain autumn afternoons.

What I miss the most, though,
When the earth tilts
And another year crosses into autumn
Is sleeping with the window open
And waking in the murky dawn
To the sound of birds
Singing the sun over the horizon.