Summer’s Ghost

This path inclined toward the sky
winds among maple and ash.
In the bejeweled cornfields below,
like a tattered cobweb,
fog’s gauze shimmers in the wind.

I stop and inhale the moist damp
and then exhale a cloud.
Having come through sticky dew,
speckled and sun-kissed,
my damp glasses smear a rainbow.

Leaves bright as spring flowers,
frosted red, carry no scent.
But a hint of fragrance remains
in the warmth of this sun
still haunted by summer’s ghost.


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