In Lieu of Flowers. November.

Leave us something of yourself,

sweet trees, indifferent bees,

spiders wrapping up a summer’s job,

now listless in the chilly breeze.

Leave us something of yourself.



Do not forget these eyes that traced

your spinning nets and pollened toes

and watched you love the sky’s bright face

with fingertips that rose

above the earth in garrulous green.



Leave us here believing

in the hills aglow, again -

and in a churning freshet searching

for what it cannot know,

but, then again,

knows.


It is this season’s yearnings

that foretell the bright returnings.


_____________________________________________________________