Autumn Interlude

These are the days when monarchs row west on tattered wings. Molten-gold aspen blazes down the hills like slow lava. A hush lies like a haze over a listening world.

These are the days when fruit flies push past screens to the festival of fruit. Peels and pits mound higher as bottles are filled with sweetness. I thank a breeze that cools me from open windows.

These are the days when the kids are back in school. The house stays clean until two-thirty. The quiet deepens. Now to float something fine on the deep and restless silence of my mind. Penny Allen, Bountiful, Utah