Surprising, isn’t it?
Summer is gone before we can enjoy it,
and now the cold wind burns my face
when I walk to see to it
that the sun has not been blown away, also, by the winter wind.
Like the thoughts that once grew and flourished--
now dusty moths evading my grasping consciousness,
Things to see but not to touch,
symbolic but meaningless,
like the dead leaves dancing
on the slow but often traveled roads.
The subtle stirring of air
just enough to lift them from their earthy graves
and send them dipping to skid across the pavement
unaware of their brittle ships’ masts--
pawns and ragdolls and something that is,
not of its own.
Surprising, isn’t it?
Summer is gone before we can enjoy it,
and the dead leaves continue dancing.