Rear view Vista

Mercurial you may think me

Yet I am older than the earth

Younger than tomorrow;

Wiser than hindsight

I delineate the boundary of time

In steps of half delivered dance

There is no time for explanation

Nor ink enough to write it

For why would folly seek solace?

When destiny has named me a fool

In these words there is nothing

A year divides three hundred and sixty five

But not one division has a passion for me

And whether heat or cold may come

My loins maintain this temperate constancy

And nothing can break upon this surety

Not more time, or hope, or opportunity

But the ants they are another matter

Their subterranean labyrinth erupts

In an orgasm of fertilities cornucopia

It ejaculates alates by the thousand

Expulsive fruition of slavish devotion

They weave in amber lines across dusk

And approach me like their progenitor

Then they are gone into supple night

To make their trysts under the stars

Amber satyrs of one consensual feast

Then as the searchlight of day fails

Sated they slip into cracks of their doom

A prison to hold them captive forever

Autumn slides so easily into the departing embrace of summer

An avatar comes of richest bounty borne from echoes of growth

Summers departing haste slighted by a gilted world of deep hues

  The coming breath of winter is exhaled softer than a new dawn

Yet it stirs the shedding mantle disrobed by majestied Beeches

And within the prostrated montages of each leaf reflects summer

By winter’s depth to be only skeletal, featherless quills underfoot

  The plumage of a Robin set among lichen is again a vibrant fall fire

Reminds us of the hearths ready to be lit again in cinderless grates

All the while I will gaze upon the season more; ere a new one begins