There never were words to describe it -
The cicada song grows wearisome and
he sings despite his wings
being seared away by August.
The jade velvet of flower beds
has not weathered well under
the heat of fevered weeding;
always stroking - twisting - pulling -
where has the ease of nature gone?
The lily's curves have turned to wilt
and the morning glory is sleeping in
past the humid languor of summer.
All that remains are grubs that thrive
on the chilled skeletons of September.
There is no promise but that of death
and there never were words to describe it.
The cicada song grows wearisome and
he sings despite his wings
being seared away by August.
The jade velvet of flower beds
has not weathered well under
the heat of fevered weeding;
always stroking - twisting - pulling -
where has the ease of nature gone?
The lily's curves have turned to wilt
and the morning glory is sleeping in
past the humid languor of summer.
All that remains are grubs that thrive
on the chilled skeletons of September.
There is no promise but that of death
and there never were words to describe it.
