Cusp (Poetry)

For now the moment hangs —
unnamed the space between the season’s change —
that tipping over frozen, held like breath
anticipating what must follow on...

The trees this morning slightly past their best —
aware, as women are, their glory fades
and night has altered something — tilted time
so shadows fall and etch a harsher line.

Inside, the sap is sighing, thinned to dreams
outside, the gloss is painted half as bright
the spirits listen — aching — anxious for
a signal that the ending has begun.

Small suicides that teeter on some edge —
leaves queue along their branches, peer in turn
to check a puddle’s mirror that reflects
an echo of a life — a rippled skin.

At last, the moment sways —
air currents move one curling leaf to drop
and take the downward plunge with sudden ease —
one grey hair finds the brush — and Summer’s gone.