I.

I wonder if,
in the dog days of summer,
some fraught limbs long
to be disencumbered,
for an autumnal breeze
to ease their burden.
Or would they endeavor,
in hope, to hold the load forever?

Is there a thrill in the chill,
portent of winter,
a sweetness in the death of things?

II.

The busyness halts.
The whole thing done,
miracles shed themselves.
No longer unique,
these relics at my feet repeat
far as no eye can see.
Tending to infinity,
I cannot be bothered to make distinctions.

Nothing is touched or moved,
there are no foragers in this forest.
I stand in its stark heart,
where all elements acquiesce,
call for a truce between dark and light.
I am embalmed in a calm
I do not understand.
This suits me.

10/10/2021

Posted on 10/10/2021
Copyright © 2024 Dane Campbell