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Monday, August 17, 2009
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
August
Late summer,
The cricket's high voltage hum
Grows louder.
A frantic sound that
Fills my head on toasted gold afternoons, while
The days hang deceptive, slow and languidly passing.
Perhaps they know of
The coming cold.
Desperate need to push out their song
Before folding wing and fading into the quiet,
The deathly stillness of the frozen woodpile.
The frost covered leaves.
The cricket's high voltage hum
Grows louder.
A frantic sound that
Fills my head on toasted gold afternoons, while
The days hang deceptive, slow and languidly passing.
Perhaps they know of
The coming cold.
Desperate need to push out their song
Before folding wing and fading into the quiet,
The deathly stillness of the frozen woodpile.
The frost covered leaves.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Back From Paradise
This summer, the field across the road was planted with Canola.
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