A working draft of something that ocurred to me while working late at night. I am amazed how the senses can bring about such profound memories and inspire such words to describe them. I hope the reader can envision what I was going for here; a dual purpose that emitts remorse, regrett and the passing of a season.
Enjoy
Witt
Dew hangs on each blade of morning grass
Foretelling of things to pass
Wood smoke permeates atmosphere
Rekindling a memory so familiar
While I labor long past dusk
Immersed in clang and clatter
An industrial matter
Handed down by my father.
Thoughts of a past life
I long not to lose
For scent of a dying campfire
With its glowing plumes
Or gentle caresses of rose petals in full bloom.
A narrative in prose proceeds before me
And I am left alone
It gets into my clothes
Under my skin
And holds
Until a first whisper of winter wind
August end.
D.A. Wittler 15'
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