from FRUITSALAD by Ellen Azorin
The grass in fields has given up, forlorn;
the embryos of poppies lie unborn;
the paths are thirsty, turned to tongues of crust;
the autumn leaves disintegrate to dust.
The weatherman has packed his gear and left;
umbrellas stand abandoned and bereft.
And though I prize these days unspoiled by rain,
my sunlit joy is tinged by nature’s pain.
I am the child of industry and smoke—
I share the guilt for causing skies to choke.
The cows are crying, I can hear their bells;
they toll for farmers gone from fertile dells.
Yet near the cottage where I watch the birds
the trickling of a creek can still be heard.