A stiff breeze
Blows the final leaf from the willow
Onto the grey St. Augustine grass.

I’m staring
From the park bench;
Building a nest
Of thorns, bottles, and crutches;
A cold spot for my thoughts to rest.

Unlike the toupe on the ducks head;
And the child chasing the fowl’s feather,
Followed by a Mother’s loving glance.

Brings a warm wrinkle to fight a stiff breeze;
Today I won’t go grey with the grass.