Late Autumn's Bosom

Late Autumn's Bosom

A last sincere sun pulled me from my den
With promise of deep warmth for my hoary chest
To stave off winter’s looming sneer of ice cold pride
A simple cool rural day against late autumn’s bosom.
The dust of soybeans and corn notwithstanding
Roiled in from reaped fields, a roaming shadow,
Fighting for winter against me and the bees,
Which found me a tasty alternative to disappearing flowers,
Agitating my sun soaked reverie of summer’s last stand.
To take me for a flower, what a sweet mistake.
A backhand thwack sent each dizzy bee
Swirling off with a headache and nothing more.
Slowly slipping back into the fleeing warmth,
Squeezing what I could out of its finality,
The sting in my back made me spring forth
With hasty thoughts of vengeful bees returning
When after all it was just a hungry, lost ladybug.
I’m no corn stalk where aphids roam, little lady,
But where shall you go now
For you must turn in from the fields
Which disappear row by meticulous row.
What dreams have you of winter?
A place to hide, a place to survive,
A place away from winter’s iron grip
Of ice and frosty fingers digging deep?
Go bite winter’s back, you ladybugs,
And cause winter to spring forth from its chair,
Its long, slow chair of white isolation.
Go irritate winter from its cold slumber, you bees,
And bring forth the bright succulent feeding flowers.
Forsake me on my cool rural autumn day
Let me suck up the departing warmth of a waning sun,
Let me wonder where I too will hide
From winter’s iron grip of ice and frosty fingers digging deep.

                             September 2003