Then, it's memory.

 

Moth in the window
Pressing flat, and still as death.
Why doesn't it move?

 

 Suddenly the sun,
And a burst of light and joy;
Then, it's memory.

 

 The porch flower pot
Has brown leaves about to fall.
Miniature Autumn.

 

 Soft billowing clouds
Rise behind skeletal trees--
Mountains in the sky.

 

Giant old brown leaf
Perched from where it began.
It's journey's not done.

 

 Walking with a stick
Young man taps and swings his way
Down the leaf strewn road.

 

From under dead leaves
Some new green ferns flourishes--
A burst of green light.

 

 Pungent, from the woods,
(But not disagreeable)
The smell of horse shit.