The Fox

Summer grass in which I rest, cooling in shade from labors made is as green as glass from a soda-pop bottle, its fragments that ride, washed up in the tide, refined in sand, undesigned by hand by artisans in Italy, or the rain in Spain. I'm prostrate to air perspiration drench, pleased as I am with the sweaty travail of brush and pail that made something old seem new again. But, please, no pictures, motion, or still, I'm unprepared, Mr. DeMille-- No close-ups for a new book cover! Neither friend, nor foe, nor past-tense lover could uncover that other who in an earlier incarnation received this oblation: "Your mother's a Fox," no plain Jane mom of chocolate chip cookies in home room trips,but, she in a mini-skirt and laced-up boots. Sad to tell, (can't stop the bell) sound it will! No longer in her springtime revel, "Fox" no longer fits the stage when age betrays. With graying locks and widening girth, it's clear she's "Gone to Earth," Forget false cheer, brush and pail don't function here.