The silhouette of a ridge
half-clouded by morning fog
makes me think of
scorched grass in early fall
hemmed by leaves turning so fast
I can watch them redden, change
like corn or bamboo,——
the mind too
watching white-blossomed oregano,
bees, flying ants, a moth,
it’s only when they’ve all flown off
that the signs of endings become apparent;
bees dead in the quad.
All I want to do is throw the frisbee
while the light catches it
curving to my target,
but there’s no one waiting.
The good thing is, I’ve accepted it.
Spoken to grandma and she agrees
the earth is done with us. All we can do is sit,
watch the feral cats or sun
unveil itself as dew
in growing heat evaporates.
Ryan is an educator and writer who loves music and interdisciplinary arts. His poetry is concerned with poetic tradition and the nature of influence on modern writing. He works as an administrator at a primary school and routinely acquires book collections for its library.