Summer's Garden by Bobbi Sinha-Morey

In the cool wind of early

October I walk down to

last summer's garden,

morning glories twined

among rows of cornstalks

and up the ladders of leaves.

I hear them calling to me,

and I lean in to listen;

delicate little trumpeters

flaring their clarion tones,

pink as the inner lip of

a seashell, and I hear my

own heartbeat rise and fall,

a tide tugging me closer

so I can see each one

opening to the light, their

faith but a star etched across

their faces, rejoicing in their

manna from the sun, in their

day-to-day life.

by Bobbi Sinha-Morey