The Sun, the Wind and I
The sunrise sun backlit the now brown corn tassels,
it passed through them to light a ream of paper thin layers
of fog strewn across the road.
I shuffled through those pages early, an hour before the wind
would have done so without me.
It is the time of year that the fog’s manuscript is rewritten each
day, as sure as sun, as sure as corn, as sure as wind.
How would the story read? Does it have a plot, a moral?
Is it a story of the end of summer or is it just
a now common start of another day?
The sun, the wind and I,
Sweep clear
The every-nightly left-over
Clutter
Of thin slips of fog
From the floor.
(2008)
