These Waving Blooms

A sun veiled in gossamer

shines over 

roadside salesmen

as we roll into the city.

They wave rhubarbs and

myrtle blooms.

We have come from summer days

devouring berries

sweet and ripe.

Hungry in the courtyards,

the feast would come our way.

Now this dust;

these waving blooms.

And this faint, sepulchral thought

that every dog has had its day.

About the Author

Hugo S. Simões comes from a small island along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. He currently lives in Lisbon, Portugal. His poetry and prose have previously appeared in Southwest Review, Third Point Press, The Rio Grande Review, Across the Margin, and Whistling Shade.