Untitled #2

The seconds here, wasp's wings and inverted
dead spiders gathered by the corner
of brick and grass. What's left of us
when the peaches have dried up (or left stolen)?
No fruit was safe when the squirrels were gathering
for their winter. No barking dog deterred
the furry thieves from their feast as one-by-one
the green peaches were picked away in an early harvest.

The hours here are measured by the wind
and the brittle leaves gathered in the corner
of brick and fence. What's left of us
when the roses have died on the vine?
No petals were safe against the cold autumn breeze
as the hand of winter began to turn the page.
No prowling cat could scatter enough birds.
What's left now in this cruel hour of morning sunrise?


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