Through the branch electric wire
Connect atop my only spire.
Above the trees that shed their leaves
And fall unto my rusty eaves.
Create a brief and green scene
Until the Autumn’s come and been.
After death, the dawning crown
Has all but turned the awnings brown!
Balancing without much thought
Toward a swathe of comfort,
The softened sun comes filtering
Betwixt cool winds contorting.
Coffee, toast and my newspaper
Insects orchestrate their caper.
Digging the soil, grass for show,
Windchimes in my open window.
– 2010
P.S.Clinen 