Tomatoes wilt and poplars yellow
Yet still the air is hot
This isn’t autumn warm and mellow
But hell, I think, we’ve got.
A second thought occurs, as thoughts will do
Hell wouldn’t have this much mildew.
Autumn-clad, they gather
Round summer’s last blooms
Drinking its memory.
Laugh at the vultures, who think you would steal
Their refuse. Love them anyway, and be grateful
For their meal. Say their grace.
Trade your house for a turtle, then set it free
In the woods, to find its way to water.
Rejoice in your hope.
Fall on your knees to see the wild flower
That grows in the ditch, its head erect
Among the paper cups and sandwich wrappers.
Then rise up. Go forth. Sing your song
As if you would make it so.
Work as if it mattered.
There once was a farmer from Durham
Who had this to say to a worm:
Though you may now be happy
In your duck straw so crappy
When the ducks come a-running, you’ll squirm!