Broken shingles
And dogs barking
In the dark, luminous
Evening hours of the mind;
Tree branches sway to the
Music of the wind howling
Through the bowels of my
Imagination – as TV antennas
Branch out to newer frontiers
Of reception and digital
Broaches on the mundane:
Picture window on a world forgotten
Or would it be just a swaying of the last
Leaf of summer – only to welcome a winter
Lacking of snowflakes and winter coats;
Seasons shift with the delicacy of a raven's wing,
Yet the changes vary but slightly from one season
To the next;
Where shall we be in a hundred years hence –
When the winters run how, beaches full
And the summers run cold, a snowy day in July.
January 15, 2000
