August Moon: parting from the leaves

August Moon day 8 prompt:
I sat outside and told my secrets to the moon. This was her reply: ....


The sun was high in the sky when I rose
and yet cannot melt
tiaras into bullets
or bullets into bedpans
or bedpans into spades

nor coax fresh fruit
from smothered seeds.

Who are you to despair
at stones not turned
and leaves no longer new

when you stand but a step
and a hinge-life away
from a sky with different answers?



~pld


Both photos were taken earlier tonight.
I took a break between stanzas to walk some magazines around the corner. There is already the scent of burning leaves in the air.

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