seasons

There is a Way the Summer Ends

The sounds of sunshine
and baseball on the radio
give way to soft winds
luring leaves toward the
ground; forcing trees
to undress too swiftly
as though the largest
longest party had
ended maybe an hour
before, and they just
arrived home, exhausted.
If you stare at a
sunset for too long
you go blind. I think
that is how that
saying goes. Either way
eventually they all
look the same,
the sunsets do, so
what is the point?
Too much of a good thing
makes that thing
not so good anymore.
The colors of leaves
in late October
Never seem boring
even if the colors
are always the same
(even if the timing is not).
Change permeates the air.
It becomes necessary
for everything to
ultimately stay the same.

After the fall,
winter arrives,
followed by all the others.
The days are numbered
One, Two, Three….
followed by all the others.
Sometimes, there
is one extra.
I cannot fathom
where the sun
finds the time.

Nearing Morning

Hard heeled boots strike
the late spring snow;
create a crunching echo
heard throughout the 
valley.
Early birds thus
move onward, a 
quest for quieter trees
after time spent in 
dawn's darkness.
Arriving at 
the apex I 
inhale intensely 
(intently)
taking nature into my
lungs and soul.
The sun, 
appearing now, 
anticipating my prompt 
approach, greets me 
with all
the fanfare fit for 
       a King.

Untitled

Among the skinny trees
one stands out
for no reason whatsoever.

Neither as wide nor as 
tall as its
siblings and mates, it extends from

the picturesque forest 
floor, sprints toward
an azure sky, stopping just short.

One of the last winds of 
Autumn (is
this the last wind of Autumn?) swirls

about reluctant to 
put itself 
to bed; working to outlast the 

season like children on 
bicycles
in middle September at dusk

as the sun sets a bit 
earlier. 
If the sun even sets at all.

When the Spring Becomes Itself

I straighten raindrops with my eyes,
swallow wind whole with my mouth;

feel the sunshine in my mind,
forage atmospheres and find

solace in a Sunday noon.
Minute flowers, all abloom,

Sleepy clouds drifting through time
(while colors of space rewind)

each remind, relentlessly,
me through their soliloquy

yes, I begin to grow old;
Despite the truth I’m unsold.

Red, yellow, and blue denies
indirect warmth from replies

of misguided uneven light,
Savage mistresses affright

a random crowd of living things
with raucously flapping wings

Toward the unknown known beyond
mirrored reflections; abscond

to the peaceful state wherein
the slanted sun erases sin.