by Alice M. Swaim

No farther than my fingertips,
No weightier than a rose,
The essence of green summer slips
Into a waiting pose. 
The tilted bowl of heaven
Has spilled its blue and gold
Among the vines and grasses
Where autumn is foretold. 
Skylarks trill the melody,
Crickets cry it over;
Summer hides her mystery
In fields of hay and clover.


As featured on
The Daily Gardener podcast:

Words inspired by the garden are the sweetest, most beautiful words of all.
Alice Mackenzie Swaim
Alice Mackenzie Swaim