The Blending of Things
Summer leapt into August
on bicycle wheels
racing across bubbling asphalt streets
and golden singed lawns
past wagons seeping the sour
drip of sweet corn onto the street.
It is a blending of things
that makes every season's change.
Tiny country towns turn green
as well they turn again
breathing the cultivator's dust--
a covering of translucent grey
that makes August.
And Autumn is as slow about turning winter
until the bent down snowy step
presents itself, a contradiction
with the wind torn red leaves.
Every season's change
is a blending of things until
that subtle barrage of the next
on the last, comes into our minds
set on ripe burnt fields,
to rip us on
by the firm investment of the wind.
It is only that we didn't notice
or don't want to.
We'd like that it didn't change
and yet we're turned for it
ready.
Lansing
1988
Rossville Series
©1988 The Blending of Things — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
on bicycle wheels
racing across bubbling asphalt streets
and golden singed lawns
past wagons seeping the sour
drip of sweet corn onto the street.
It is a blending of things
that makes every season's change.
Tiny country towns turn green
as well they turn again
breathing the cultivator's dust--
a covering of translucent grey
that makes August.
And Autumn is as slow about turning winter
until the bent down snowy step
presents itself, a contradiction
with the wind torn red leaves.
Every season's change
is a blending of things until
that subtle barrage of the next
on the last, comes into our minds
set on ripe burnt fields,
to rip us on
by the firm investment of the wind.
It is only that we didn't notice
or don't want to.
We'd like that it didn't change
and yet we're turned for it
ready.
Lansing
1988
Rossville Series
©1988 The Blending of Things — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.