Before the cold of night,
We sit by campfire's light.
Warmed by pure delight.
About the Creator
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More stories from Ahsha Clayton and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Last Light of Summer
The cicadas sang their final symphony as Maya stood on her grandmother's porch, watching the sun bleed orange across the Kentucky hills. September had arrived with its bittersweet promise—the end of freedom, the return to structure, the closing of another chapter in her rapidly disappearing childhood.
By The Curious Writerabout 8 hours ago in Poets
Comments (1)
I love how you made this rhyme!