The end of the line for summer. Fall is ravenous for cool days, The crunch of brightly, colored leaves underfoot, The smoky sweetness of wood fires, The sharp, crisp bite of fresh picked apples. A loon's soul-filled cry mourns The passage of another season Summer into autumn And the loss of children's laughter, As they barreled off docks Into the warm, golden waters of Watchic Pond. A poem by my Sister Regina Rutter Woke to a dream of Watchic Pond Maine. Standing watching my brother in law load the car. I wander off for a last swim. Haven't been there in years. Until tonight. Swam in the hot springs there are none save in my dream.
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