TRANSITION
The rose leaves fall on Summer’s pulsing breast,
In crimson showers they’re lightly blown along;
The south winds rock the blue bird’s dainty nest
Filled to the brim. Glad is the streamlet’s song.
An empty nest sways on a leafless bough;
Hushed is the gurgling laughter of the stream;
And by the garden path a folded rose
Shuts closely in its heart an unborn dream.
Beth Slater Whitson.