Weary

 

We

Slant toward another

Season. The light tells

time when the first red leaf

Of fall lands torn and bug bitten

at our feet after fluttering

down like some letaloose

little bird. Summer lays lost

and the grasshopper saws his song

To some organic green tune

His mother wove. He chides

What works he himself has never

Seen nor done. His antennae

Tick, flicks dust mote spangles

Of sun spent worries and he

Glides toward home.

— Ruth Moose