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Found Poetry #113
113 (angelboord)
more than one
maple tree
has acquired
its first blush
of red.
the fields that
have not been
hayed are full
of goldenrod.
our field is mostly dry
orange grass, black-eyed
susans and thistles,
and milkweed gone
to seed, letting
puffs of white
loose in the wind.
our house is still
full of crickets
(the lucky, loud,
singing kind) and i
am sweating
in the humidity.
but those maples
are like warning flags:
here summer
is almost over;
my body is
on another
timetable entirely.
the maple trees might
make me a little
nervous, the clocks
that they are
ticking down
with me toward
my due date.
it feels right
to be turning
with the seasons,
even if the seasons
are coming
a little too fast
for comfort.
more than one
maple tree
has acquired
its first blush
of red.
the fields that
have not been
hayed are full
of goldenrod.
our field is mostly dry
orange grass, black-eyed
susans and thistles,
and milkweed gone
to seed, letting
puffs of white
loose in the wind.
our house is still
full of crickets
(the lucky, loud,
singing kind) and i
am sweating
in the humidity.
but those maples
are like warning flags:
here summer
is almost over;
my body is
on another
timetable entirely.
the maple trees might
make me a little
nervous, the clocks
that they are
ticking down
with me toward
my due date.
it feels right
to be turning
with the seasons,
even if the seasons
are coming
a little too fast
for comfort.