Poetry       Essays       Letters

Sandy Lyne



Autumn morning—
we have left the classroom behind
to write in the “butterfly garden” of the school.
The sky is blue, no clouds,
a swatch of fading moon.
Cars and trucks flash past— too near;
the jasmine vines have begun to brown;
the chain on the flagpole
rings like a gong.
Warmer now, high sun;
the surf of wind
comes ashore in the pines;
shells of leaves tumble in.
Everyone is writing now;
my mind is happy
letting worlds collide.


© The Estate of Sandford Lyne



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