Crescent-Magnolia

Sunlight shines white on a field of dried yellow grass. Sharp, metal-bright, it burns Onto the undersides of my lids, the picture before me: Tousled children in jeans and thin jackets, Small dashing figures on a backdrop of Transparent blue sky. They clasp withered apples in their small hands. I'm kneeling in the back of a hay cart, The scent of wood smoke resting in my lungs, As a man serenely cracks pumpkin seeds Beside me The children chase each other through the pure sunlight. Autumn – Its crisp chill biting with wintry teeth, Its fragrant crushed leaves that smell of the end – Somehow floods me with the feeling t