After frost
the rude bloom
stoops with rime
dying.
A spider climbs
tippy-toe up the icy
stalk to sling strands
into the rising, brightening
air at a branch. No one
in all this is fooled.
A curious business
of trying
too soon to make a living;
the change coming too late
for we the living, burst
into it to appall
some design.
No comments:
Post a Comment