Bronzed Cadences

I hear faded trumpet sounds of summer 
and fill my arms with sleepy wildflowers, 
hold them close, feel the damp, 
smell the last fragrance. 

I stop to gather sounds of grasses 
blowing, building waves of sunlight 
on the folded slopes where ducks 
dart shadows on the frosted pond. 
Dry leaves spun with rust 
ring bright against the hills. 
Dove’s wings 
homeward bound, 
magnified by silence.