Friday, November 11, 2005

The Wait

Backyard trees are tangled like morning hair,
leaves shoot down, cornflake flutters;
rye grass seed starts its thin rooting,
its whispered search for water.

Shrimp plants have been blooming, their tongue tip
flowers like the clitorus, full and poised
for the sip of ruby throated hummingbird.
A squirrel descends and waits for black sunflower seed.

I swear it is watching me with its one black eye
while I watch the rusty, twisting leaves.
We slide away from Indian summer and nearer
the groan of ground, the silence of cold.

11 November 2005

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