the cusp
“a point of transition between two different states”…
i feel it in myself
along with the first falling leaves
from the sycamores and poplars…
and the desiccated brown umbels
of Queen Anne’s lace
i hear it in the shrill cicada song
as it’s tireless droning
runs through my head…
and in the plop of acorns as they begin to hit the ground
i see it in the shrunken creek beds
that lie lazy and shallow…
and in the trees and grass
that have lost all their luster
i hear it in the rustle of corn stalks
once emerald green,
now parched and thirsty across
a rain-starved land
for everything has a season…
a time to be on the cusp…
a point of transition
from one state to the next
and i felt it
as it began
with the drifting down
of that first, tired, rusted leaf…
Written by: Sylvia L. Mattingly
September 6, 2019
Crooked Creek by Sue Mattingly 