The Wheel In September
I've startled a frog, who leaps in flashes.
He and a grasshopper zig-zag away.
The lawn whispers mildly, in tune with the sun,
Yet something's amiss--the air is unsettled.
Squirrels and I stash away seeds,
salvaged from spent, rain-ravaged beds.
Bees are now torpid and cling to the mums.
Bedraggled zinnias give up the ghost.
What becomes of the Grim Reaper's harvest,
of creatures who cannot withstand the strain?
The mystery hides in an infinite point--
the one in the center of The Great Hub--
the crux of a myriad transformations.
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