Lies
 
The last of the wildflowers
stand like knights in a moat
on my woodstove,
cut by the sword
of a gentle flame
 in a green grove.
 When are they going
to harvest the corn?
The sun is so warm
he’s deceitful.
The horse sways its tail
at the remaining flies,
the lies autumn makes.

Published in Compass Rose Literary
 

Artist: "Jenni" Guinevere von Sneeden, @guinevere.von.sneeden