A Word Sower’s Lament
by MFrostDelaney

Behold the Queen Anne’s Lace that I might pen
if I knew how, transform a page and then
unfold the charcoal sky, its wilting threat
that closes in on daylight strokes. And yet
those gifts from God the vistas deftly show
are not within the phrases that I know.

But acorns, dried-up leaves and pinecones fall:
the seeds of life, the blades of death and all
that’s in between reveal themselves on pages
of books I read by autumn’s gifted sages
who furrow ground and plant their thoughts in spring.
I watch sprouts grow but do not learn a thing
of how such lace emerges from the fields
or how an oak displays its leaves, then yields.



 

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