Fall
Nuts hang on, impatient feign
of love, dread the drop to soil
embalmed with last year’s mulch,
manure, no pangs for my nose.
Tree tunnels yellow, lose roofs
to gravity in efforts to thwart
Sunday cyclists; limbs and leaves
tempt sly treads too wise to fall.
Spring
Leaves thrust to sun’s embrace,
undefiled they cling, dare March winds,
stomp a new Mexican hat dance:
flirtation, conquest over winter’s nude.
Soil, freshly tilled, fertile as calving stalls,
dries to adobe clods-late snowballs
for farm children too young to plow,
too fast to chase on my spring ride.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones