By Jack Slocomb

Must be that turn of year,

days more dimly drawn,

nib of freeze in the tighter

twines of air,

for those fat black polished

crickets to be in high gear

in their frenzied

lofty springing in and out

of the weave of

drooping grasses 

along the loose gravel lane

when I scuff too near

Must be the last burst 

of the fiery spirits of summer 

before the

dropping,

dropping,

                       dropping,

                                 dropping

                                            of leaves

My leaning is to

find the revelation

in such recurring liturgies as these,

of the way they aver

one another,

the way they

befall in the same embrace of time,

yet I can only ask and ask,

all the while tasting 

in the breezes that such fathoming

cannot ever be mine 

And that is the abiding comfort