The silent incumbance of a rebellion
Shocking and sordid he said was the story
Of all the things gone that once were in glory
I’d never the red hue of an Autumn leaf seen
Nor stood in the white stuff to pick out the green
new grass that implored one to stroke its velor
These strange sights and sensations Grandpa said were once and now are no more.
Grown accustomed, though weary, to searing hot days,
I had a hard time of his whimsical sayings..
White clouds, I think he described, and “buckets” of rain..
I rarely saw moisture in such dry terrain
Though it did sound lovely to “roll in the grass”
After introduction to a spring of some sort, I think, perhaps that is what he said.
Green, gold, red and white
Blue, cool winds and gentle warm light and none of this plight
I guess I will never understand
This heat,…and no song in the air he remised as so sweet
Though, I’d just much rather breathe without the need
To mask my face when I walk out to greet
This old man who delivers the seeds
That we water and tend to when no one else sees.