This is a July poem, but so what? It’s just barely August, so … close enough for folk music.
HARBINGER
by
Marian Allen
The locust trees are turning
and it’s only July.
Gold-brown, red-brown, brown,
they shock the eye,
dead in the green;
as out of place as
crocuses in the snow.
A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: How does your main character feel when fall (autumn, for you non-Americans) comes on?
MA
