No, Really

The wind's picked up. No; it's really picked up.
The trees above are swaying madly. All
The cornfields in the valley writhe as if
They are the waters of a distant emerald
Sea. The air, which had been hot and humid,
Right for summer's starting day, has cooled.
It feels autumnal now. The sun, without
Apologies, has drifted northward, dimmed.
It's on its way to bed, and, as it passes,
It brings all the thickets deeper into shadow.
I'm impassive. Nearly drunk, I drink. I
Chronicle the state of nature here because
My life's a void. No; really, it's a void.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2021-06-21 at 03:39

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