Thursday, November 01, 2012

How Soon


The clock’s pendulum strikes the gong

The pulley pulls readying it for another strike

Outside the leaves have been swept in the curbs

Even before they turn brown, flame red and gold

Impatience goad the blossoming and ripening

Not allowing them to stay awhile as green and sour

Hot housing and hurrying their reddening

Sweet and acrid to the taste, gritty to the tongue

 If it has not been by now it will never be

You have shunned others and they, in turn,

Have left you recalling false remembrances

Fantasies trying to be real yet in a blink are lost

In desolate streets as you nail signs on rickety posts



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