Its ruby goblet dry, the summer flies
On wings that beat the hastening pace of time
But pauses here for one last sip. Remember
Well this welcome banquet. Come again.
You lie! My thoughts cannot be captured:
They prowl the woods on padded feet
And saunter boldly down the street
(And sing a polyphonic suite)
And fly away in rapture.
Too much of my earthly existence lags
Behind me, stuffed in plastic bags
And will not be redeemed.
White grocery bags swing in harmony round her hips
like a ballet skirt — if only she knew
she was a dancer, she might not look so dour.
My words drift aimless ever skyward
To become the longing breath of leaves
Of sweetgum and of poplar.
My words cascade like droppings to the earth
And rot in place till spring renews them.