It’s early morn.
I’m done with sleep.
The light is soft.
Sun has yet to
breach the clouds.
In distance,
a dog begins to yap.
Outside, a bird in tree
screeches, screeches back.
I hear the furnace light.
Outside, the air is cold?
I rise to look. A sheen
of frost has licked the lawn.
A fog hangs close
above the ground.
Beyond the lawn,
rows and rows of corn
stand shriveled, brown.
Harvest will come soon.
Then dried in silos more,
by roaring blowers
forcing air,
desiccated ears
will feed the neighbor’s cows,
once snow is fallen
covering fields surround.
Flowers in vase
upon a table near,
once bright with cheer,
just like the corn,
have lost their hue,
their shapes
begun to fail.
Glance at visage
within the window’s mirror,
reveals its own
diminished flush
and signs of frail.
Whether arc be
short or long,
astonishingly high,
meanderingly low,
life’s circle will for all
one day bend
toward its pale and
withered end.
And yet, this day is new.
A smile begins to show
on visage reflected
in that mirror,
as out beyond
those frosted fields
sun’s warmth and light
begins to breach
those clouds so
colorless and drear.
|
Saturday, October 20th, 2018
Bridgman
MI
USA
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