Harbinger #Poem #SampleSunday

This is a July poem, but so what? It’s just barely August, so … close enough for folk music.


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?


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I was born in Louisville, Kentucky, but now live in the woods in southern Indiana. Though I only write fiction, I love to read non-fiction. The more I learn about this world, the more fantastic I see it is.

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