Summer Into Autumn

Autumn.

Strings of shining spider webs;

dew-drop sprinklings on sparkling grass;

curling leaves, turning brown;

burning dead and broken branches,

twigs and sprigs of withered shrubs;

digging borders, mulching soil, cutting back

and tidying the dead and dying things.

Morning chills in crystal air, carrying mist

from mouths and snouts of breathing creatures,

all lively now, not lazing or crazed

in the season of heat, of lingering days.

The nights are winning, now, the days

are winding slowly down. The seasons,

like man’s illusions, like earth,

sky, thunder, all come and go.

Renewal is never ending.

Nothing stays the same.

All things pass.

The Season Unseen

Spring.

The season of seasons, this season, unseen.

All around, the green, the jade and emerald

jewels of leaves and buds burst with life,

out of sight. Sunlight blesses sullen earth,

raises tendrils, like the green fingers

of soiled hands in prayer,

to greet it with a drowsy wave.

The frowsy days drift by.

Birds bicker and palaver in trees.

These we see, though from afar,

from a distance as safe for them

as for us. They twitter and breathe

unexpected air, drink sweeter water,

purer and clearer than they have known

before. People prisoned by the present

that we do not wish to give

do not see the glory of the season

that carries on without our attention.

It carries on, free of us, unseen, unsung.

Spring is sprung.