wayward

it is a wayward day, it is
a rather lazy one but i  can not fault it for such, i often
dream like this
i often lay half naked in the thinking
of autumn, in its peeling back
of  shade spreading the warm melt of sun
on my skin

the creek rambles on a bit slower now, i prefer
its late song over chirping  newborns
they are gone, the ones that flew, only the bones remain
of the weak - i too have made it through the season
that is all i care

the fields, they are all but turned over with the rest
reverted to rust and stubble; as i so recline to
being that observer who has
waited long for
the final call of September
it is a lazy day - i can not fault it

for such..

bkmackenzie
copyrighted 2012