It starts with the birds-
their songs becoming scarce,
carried away with the bumbling winds.
waves of wings cover the skys
from north to south, the flow of
music going with them.
Next are the leaves-
a dance of dying through the chilled breeze,
brushing across your cheeks like
the harsh wind tears.
A feeling of loss, here.
we wait, every morning.
The flowers begin their rot, and we begin
our annual exercise in white-knuckling
the last remnants of life.
Holding our breath every morning,
until
until.
About the Creator
Christmas Tree
Christmas tree curbside done with living room season waiting for trash truck. I don't even put a Christmas tree in the living room. But when I see the trees on the curb, near the trash bin, waiting for pickup, it makes me sad. Maybe I see a metaphor in it, the way it is discarded when the season is over.
By Seema Patel6 days ago in Poets
FPS: The Last Flame Challenge Winners
Welcome to our first Winners Announcement of the year and to the final challenge in the Fall Poetry Series. The Last Flame invited writers to sit with endings, using fire as a central image to consider what remains when something burns out: ash, warmth, memory, silence, or the faint promise of what comes next. The strongest pieces treated endings as gradual rather than sudden, allowing them to flicker, dim, and linger.
By Vocal Curation Team6 days ago in Resources
Comments (2)
I love you impactful brevity
This is so beautifully written. You’ve captured that aching stillness between seasons perfectly.