by Elizabeth Powe
The taste of summer is seized
By the grip of fall.
The Sun is smothered at
The brute hands of rain clouds,
Yearning to be set free from its clutch.
Deep in my bones,
The cold slithers.
Drops from the sky
Beat down on my face,
Making my rain jacket
A second skin,
Craving to be shed.
Huddled couples under umbrellas exchanging grins,
Professionals linked to their coffees
As if it were respirators and
An auburn haired-boy anxiously awaits the bus.
The clouds are winning the war,
Allied with lightening and thunder,
Brief flashes mark the Sun’s small victories.
But the suffocation continues,
The war ends in darkness
And the world turns black.
People go inside hopeless,
But I stay to watch the sun try to win again.
ELIZABETH POWE is from a small town on the east end of Long Island named Greenport. Currently a junior with a history major and English minor at the University at Albany, she aspires to pursue her education to law school to become a heath law attorney. She dedicates her love of writing poetry and short stories to her family who have always encouraged her to follow her passions.