Saturday, September 1, 2012

Autumn Lament

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

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