the head is buried in the hands
while sands of time quick-slip away
ignoring future failed plans
for act IV in a one-scene play

the moody modbush bristles back
the thrush and thistle slowly boil
kudzu keeps it under wrap
sulfur softly seeds the soil

the forests sigh in solar flares
before the oceans steam away
but every night we lay and stare
and hear psalms of the milky way

this may be forgotten
but never by me
the ripe alike with rotten
fall beneath the tree