Perhaps it was, all of it, for naught,
I concluded, and I must be crazy.
Hearing things, maybe.
Chasing things, certainly. An echo, perhaps, a desire.
Come Autumn, and suddenly we are all floaters.
Existentialists, looking for fortune
In the lines of upheaving pavement.
Goes to show, doesn’t it?
Hedonistic, we call ourselves.
In the end, we lay on cracked sidewalks and
Ask God to save us, just this once, never again.
Kiss dandelion fluff and hope that the one you love
Loves you back. Stare at Spruce trees and
Make a mess of yourself. I cried because a wind blew through here,
Northbound, and it did not take me with it.
One Tuesday evening, I decide I am one within it all.
I braid my hair into a scrawny little plait,
weave prayer into every strand.
Look up, spot a quail nestled
into the harrowed branches of the front yard Spruce.
Rest assured that one of these winds, one of these days, will
Save me somehow. A promise
Tied into October, where the birds flit and sing, and
The children are unmoored.
Away with the vanity, now. Come Autumn,
We are all devotees to the fledgling remains of our youth,
Hands clasped, praying upon scattered seeds
to find ourselves in the fissures of mid-morning skies
And learn to embrace like the spruce branches hug the quail’s nest:
Stupidly & Without Refrain.