Poem: September Rain

September Rain

It is raining,
a slow, misty,
barely there kind of rain,
hardly seen, yet,
should you sit in the garden for
any length of time,
you are drenched,
the cold wetness
soaking deep into your bones;
a rain deceptive
and seductive,
like love
that has turned to....
something else,
a thing that no longer nourishes,
but creeps into your soul
and leaves it
November cold.

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The picture was taken at Elmore Roots, a nursery in Northern Vermont, where they say "If it grows in Elmore, it will grow where you are. " The original image was bright and rich green, but I modified it to fit the poem. You can click on it for a larger version.

Tom