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What would old McGregor say if he wasn’t too busy chasing rabbits and stopped long enough to notice the creeping ebb of color
If he quit worrying long enough about the straight rows
And saw that the fruit wasn’t ripe within the fences but rather
Well beyond them
What would old McGregor say
If he noticed the sun angling lower along the horizon igniting truth in long forgotten places
And secrets waiting to be told
is the orange i see
creeping
into the pulsing, green of things
a blessing
or a time to
be still
and know that autumn
always falls curling
the edges of sunshine soaked things
angled daylight spotlighting
ochre
a shade between
blazing red maples
and yellow aspen
waiting for the day
they tumble
to the ground
grateful to become
forgotten
then remembered
in the spring
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written for the One Word at a Time blog carnival, this week’s topic: orange.
