Seedlings in spring,
tall grasses in summer sun,
we scan life on the lapping currents
at our riverās edge.
Clinging to trees, cicadas call out an endless shrill.
Water striders mate and die. Widow Skimmers dance
on the waves. A turtle basks on a dead limb
caught in a root wad along our bank. An eagle keeps watch
from a lofty sycamore perch.
Clouds darken the face of the sun. A kayak floats
downstream in shadows. A warm gust lifts and sways us
on the shore, and we wave at the paddler drifting by.
The paddler succumbs to rain. The wind stirs wakes as
an Asian Carp pounds into the boat. The beaver
makes it to shore first in the storm. The river bank is
summerās bed of sand at our roots.
In the bluster of early autumn, we bear our seeds at waterās edge.
They scatter like startled bees in the falling light.
Our ravaged arms reach for the falling light at dusk.
The glassy river reflects our age as colors fade.
Our stems bend, thirsty for noon.
This Poem is a revision of “Summer’s End”, which I put up on August 31, 2019.
Ā©Barbara Harris Leonhard, extraordinarysunshineweaver.blog
Image: “Sunset on Missouri River” Ā©Dierik Leonhard
Extraordinary Sunshine Weaver 
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