The Wayward Bird

While wayward birds of summer pass

through quiet air that autumn mourns,

enduring crows, great hawks and geese

scavenge withered fields of corn.

Now shortened days of sunlight shift,

turn time pressed nights to Indigo,

and lend the trees a forlorn look

that winds of time grant vertigo.

Mixed leaves of earthy colors fall

in stunning random disarray

they spin and weave a tapestry

of natures colorful display.

Soon chilled this earthly carpets spread

with natures threads of red and gold

and welcomes, ushers, mellow fall,

our harbinger of winter cold.

I watch beneath a dimming moon

as midnight nears and sleep impels,

hear sounds of rustling leaves no more,

replaced by ring of temple bells.

Beneath white calm, spring flowers rest,

hemlocks edge cold bridal gown,

squirrel, fox and graceful deer,

tread silently on frozen ground.

Eternal flow of parting years,

birthing harvest's pantomime;

sow cycles timed, each year precisely

repeating reaping winds of time.

This fertile earth once more shall warm

from sun and rains of each born spring

still there are seasons yet unspent,

that I, the wayward bird must wing.

chgSchlessel © 1997 MzSugah@aol.com