Every September I begin a poem this way:
The tree-tops are liquid gold
the sun is flying high,
but not here, it is setting long over
stubbly fields. The geese are calling
to the sky again.
I am caught in the perpetual motion
of life, seasons and words. But who
out there cares? What significance
do tree-tops hold, no matter the colour?
What does the sun care that it rises, sets
navigates a path?
My cat’s claws are stuck
in the screen door again -
a clear sign the season is changing.
Her claws don’t appear
anywhere near the screen door
between May and now.
And again, here am I