Gentle currents of fall breeze
curl over a patch of prairie land.
Around the sun clouds drift
casting golden mirages on browning ground.
Long lost tales under crispy leaves tan,
turning red before winter drawing near.
coves of blankets like a dome over my bed
evermore dimming quiet and about silent,
hibernating under the patchwork.
looking out an old, wood carved window
feeling, I would never need another moment alive
especially with these songs of crows.
was a bluebird, I would be gathering
a finch chirping, a woodpecker coddling my young
squirrel jumping, and lizard scampering by
lively small worlds bustling, all strategically working
partial to their own dens of yearning.
Cold earth corners waiting for warmth again, house, home, hearth, table.
stretch and turn on the evenings burning lights.
budding tips from plant life greener from the drizzling day.
I’m up half the night, morning, day, evening and again
there is nothing so pretty, the tree, field another rolling hill shine green
why not another parade of whistling visits in blossoms first energy
more heat, and the slower time moves on
bursting small episodes in the best of dawn and dusk hours.
Lazy afternoon sweets, mint and picnic berry soothing cool.
Curious eyes look for crumbs, for the water, for shade,
light and waiting days spread thin over rock, wood, and stream
patiently reluctant gray tides of change, rolling the free range back.