September in Uralla

Cheerleader twirling cherry blossoms,

waving their pink pom poms to drowsy caravans,

Eyes sapped from acreage of frost nibbled grass.

An eager bee whispers her excitement

In my ear before joining her sisters.

Hurrying and heaving yellow parcels,

Already laden with the crucial ingredients for their evening feast.

Winter’s dying breath sighs throughout New England.

The newborn, yet familiar summertime sunlight awakens,

Kissing my cheeks; a mother kissing her child.