Fall is coming,
And so our garden falls asleeping.
As the loss of a passing pet,
A passing friend,
I feel it likewise grave
When delicata feels elegiac.
Such nurture it gave!
Such beauty in growth!
Each passing week new life matured.
What simple gifts waited for me,
As I foraged for the manna?
Now to soil this garden defers.
Does it make you wonton, or
Does it make you wantin’?
Eat enough and it’ll make me
My emotions are equally dizzy.
Cottonwood tree leafs
flutter in the breeze.
Yellow now where
They were once green.
Giving the light
If our soon sleeping sun.
Proclaiming the colours
Of our soon winter warm fires.
Where logs of fifty heated summers
Are distilled, giving life to a family.
Where classic clouds grow on bits of dust and gather rather high above,
The secret cloud grows on the cottonwood tree.
Quite a democratic cloud,
Unlike its lofty family.
The end of May sees the white cotton wisps descend to waiting lips.
Clouds can be distant seen by most,
A privileged sight by flight for some.
The cottonwood clouds are free to touch, smell, taste, see, and listen to.
No access wristband needed there.
Simon would approve.
Grace sailed in my door,
Smiling past desiring clasping hands.
To know the characters of the clouds,
Ask any decent sailor.
Only the most kindred, though,
There is a secret cloud of the land.
It gives no sign of coming rain –
Or fiercely blowing wind.
It says spring is here.
Singing forth nature’s long drawn chords.
Illness bleeds industrious nature.
This convalescent faculty,
Illness, is a factory of unsatisfactoriness.
Would you like a plank of wood
For when you’re wound up,
In need to wound the wall with
Craters of grief and unsatisfactoriness?