Seasons

In the morning, it is Fall.
But afternoon brings Indian Summer,
Mating season for dragonflies,
Last hurrah for moths.
Now the rustle of the leaves,
The clucks and chirps
Of swallow and thrush,
Brings the Monarchs south again
On their way to Mexico.

My heart yearns to follow them—
To flutter off to some warm beach,
Dig my toes in the sand for a season
And laugh a lot with you,
Until some unknown force at work
In us says, “Yea, verily, verily,
Time has come to migrate north again.”

But since I have no wings to fly,
And my bones aren't hollow ones,
I'll stay today where I am put.
I'll stay tomorrow, too,
And sing my song
With it's clicks and chirps,
And pluck my tenor banjo strings,
Saying much more
Than, “Here I am,”
Until such time when I can fly away.

-jenn long