Tonight, though, the air outside spreads freshness
Leaves decomposing with fallen stalks in the fallow
Cornfield. I sit, camouflaged by brush I am just
Like this brush in winter. Waiting for spring to get my leaves
Waiting for summer to spit the seeds of my berry
On the ground. Where will I be then? Or even, what?
We take our rest here below the trees, the frost and
Biting wind not a part of this story, just us, detritus
Of another trip round the sun. We will sort it out.
Not right now. We will just sit here in the stillness, silent
Not needing the air inside, just this jam of freshness
To spread on the loaf of our lives, finally risen enough
(C) 2019, S Francis Fuller