Time Has Disappeared

Gray sky, cold, crisp air;
All the puddles are frozen;
Far, far, a bird calls.








Amicable chairs
Ready for conversation
When the time is right.

Ready for winter,
The pine cone hangs from the tree;
New cycle begins.

A cock-eyed mailbox
Waits quizzically for letters.
Does it read them, too?

Through the fence grating
Delicate green vines entwines
As fine as a web.








The sun comes gently
Peeking through the thick gray clouds,
Casts shadows, then gone.

A river of trash
In white torrents down the hill;
Blind eyes are elsewhere.








Nestled in the bark
And flowing from the dead limb
The fungus survives.













My wrist watch is blank;
I cannot see the numbers.
Time has disappeared.

Suspended in air
Three dead leaves on the tree trunk
Attached to a thin vine.