Tipping into winter

 

The garden is dull today,

the pond a sky blind eye

skimmed with grease,

and everywhere, of course,

the leaves have fallen , pale, and sere

and apples lie bruised and stained.

 

And look, right here

at my finger’s tip,

a bee is dazed and dying on the lawn

while pond skaters skip and slide

in their frenzied dance.

 

still, the robin sings the story of himself

again and again,

fearlessly

though the glory of the maple tree

is lost for another year.