on time as a social construct

guessing what the grass has done

grasping at the stem below the stalks

they end with a litany of seeds

pluck is apt at this hour when

sun burried in haze before the lake

tossing rocks into sand

who will last longer than that

not a one an infinite sum

poor folks

Let's us all of us

Look at the apples

High up in the tree

What they are 

They doing up there

Shriveled and disguised

Drowning in this is desolate

A headline they like

Just for an excuse

Relishing in reasons

Just out of grasp

Drought and no dough

The squirrel wastes time

Waiting is our heritage

As american as pie

black and yellow and green

the wasps huddle together

they whisper in the fragrance

the yellow ends are peak down

in the breeze bouncing, alive almost

tall as the sky and you and i

been there with them

 there they cluster among the dust

normal to the gold

which they wear in stripes

some black some 

slow in the shade

wings folded to the dusk

guess their names

eyes window panes

cardinal winds

and again the wind makes
the river go crazy raving mad
though blind leaps and froths
battering against the walls
turning stone into mud
and mud back into stone
turbid and covered in lines
pointing, an accusing measurement
while we languish extra dry
high upon the porch

i saw a fly

the fly has a grand strategy
and more so than most
 is important
  of
     all
         of
              it
                 is
 is compulsion
which the fly has most often

bottom of feet exposed
to the wings the proven road
the probe the provost
drawing blood
food for young
a soul to catch working in the marsh

chronos

the bath drains water
not as fast these days
sloshing with no
particular effort
circling the planet
or so it seems

an acorn tree

sleeping next to an acorn tree
listening to the early morning
squirrel dancing on the roof
and another and with clogs too
less a verse of pirouette
more a serious hornpipe jig
clomp clomp clomp
squirrel squirrel squirrel
remind me not to set an alarm

penelope

a range of waves to read and play
under the compound curves
penelope takes off lines
what a mind makes of time
a medium just as good
only instances mostly shown
waiting on the pattern to open
the infinite series of crests
and troughs too

the library

the wind coughs through this window
right in and out of these thoughts
also open to other elements
fluid or hard or soft
a table for the periodicals
an old oak or what not