Poetry / Weekend

Rolling,
tumbling,
you can’t distinguish her hair
from the gold grass that bows down
as she lays low to let you.

The old life is over;
starts over here
for a few more hours.

We die slowly,
slow  in the meadows,
reading about
somebody else’s misfortune,
a chosen destruction;
and we can laugh,
feel inadequate to the breeze
because our lungs aren’t big enough.

Just above the elbow
I’ll tease your arm-
is this a leaf
or is it a spider?
Well I won’t tell you;
keep reading until we’ve had our fill;

Until autumn’s setting sun
cannot save you
from that closing chill;

And it’s time to re-tread to concrete paths and boxes,
Those that shaped
and inform your existence.

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