No one calls
these Sunday afternoons
It’s a mixture
of peace and desolation
I watch the light
as it keeps changing
I watch clouds
voyaging the sky
I hear the cicadas
frenzied in their singing
The season is getting
ready to shift
Too few monarchs pass
through heading southwest
I sit and ponder, tracking
myself, eluding myself
Unable to stop
doing either one
The days are shorter
as my days are shorter
I can’t say what I
may have learned
Advice irritates me
even when I give it
Green acorns fall,
first leaves float down
In my heart, there’s
soft and shy music