Dried grass under moon
shadow and woodbine walks

hang around hands wandering
the flowing river talks

intrepid, exploring all possibilities
of those three fragile words.

The first to fly the flock
does not always get there first

into September - March
from Summer
The dying warmth without

beauty in crimson, yellow leaves,
and chance of melancholy bout.

A particular dampness to the soul
must exist for the poet to appear
inherently honest.