The end of August brings Autumn. The season, in which, the poet watches the shivering trees, the sluggish sun, and the forested hills of vermilion.
During the shedding season, our earth is spotted with colorful shapes. By September, the clouds bring moonlight sooner, We trade our bare feet for wool. At the top of the hill, you can sight Nature's sympathy. Shapes of leaves, and colorful hues dancing among the fodder.... Autumn plucks the night sky, and places it among our meadows. // Counting leaves, as if they were bursts of star light. \\
My paws are bruised like a peach.
I've been strumming the Banjo, and pressing tender fingers into steel threads. The secret to banjo: The more you ache, pound, stretch, grind, pluck, feather, pounce. The prettier of sounds you compose. Pressing the keys to a piano ain't got nothin' on Banjo Plucking. By the rise of Spring weather, I hope to make a dwelling out of my banjo. A place to live when the world eats my heart.
Today, there is Apple Juice floating around my belly and Samuel Beam singing like a canary.
Happiness, and Honey pails..