On Salted Wind.
What in Heaven is nature doing now?
Her summer leaves are turning autumn brown
Some say it must be salted wind that blows
Such clement air for Aphid’s frothy crown.
But cause for rusted windburn on the green
Prefers the pause and muse of pagan wells
For grey futures not yet known or seen
Are heard like peeled notes from fractured bells.
She knows the leavened denature of ways
That bond the who we are - to how we’ve been
Staring oil blunted in stunted gaze
At slow decay of wonder’s stay unseen.
And so we blank the signals that she sends.
Complacency, denies our season’s end.