There are so many big things
to contemplate as winter fast approaches.
There are shadows across the lawn,
the black skinny cat that
has fleshed out against the night,
and all those bright and belligerent autumn leaves
that startled the eye
now crunched and blown brittle.
The pomegranates are splitting,
the laden apple tree is almost purged.
There are many weighty questions
to contemplate before the day
treads its cool fingers through
the screen door.
Where are the crickets of summer,
the early morning song-birds,
and the thunderous roar of bees around
the morning glory?
On the lawn the morning paper
is covered with plastic
against the dew.
(The dew is such a small thing to
loom so large and menacing.)
On the front page I know, are words,
words that tell of immense things,
transgression and power,
death and probes,
poverty and chaos,
The walk down the path to pick it up
is tremendous with minutes,
as the big hand of time
capturing, with callous indifference
the reverence of the last days