SEPTEMBER SATURDAY
Misty hills on the horizon,
Woolly clouds spread overhead,
At the Bearcamp, black-eyed Susans
Glow along the river’s edge.
Farmers’ market up the street,
Ripe tomatoes still for sale:
I will sip a robust coffee,
Listen to the guitar wail.
Wild blueberries for my freezer
From the hilltop we once picked
Will bring a taste of yesteryear
Through the coming winter’s drifts.
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