September's Voice

 I am the voice of a meadow;  
listen to me hum.  
See what flies about me;  
every bloom has come.  
Yet I toil nor gather;  
only give away  
what the air can muster  
as against its pull I sway.  

Seeds and spores to scatter  
like so many words;  
thrown about in tatters,  
in waiting still unheard.  
Whispers only chattered  
by some chirping birds
waving to their latter;
a streaming sun of yore.  
 
And only can they  
rake away what I,  
in turn can let decay  
as sleeping, I'll regenerate  
to give again in some  
new day --  
 
To where is gone so  
shall return in all it's  
splendor, roots unburned;  
safely kept in deepest earth  
below the conquests  
of the birds.  
 
I shall come again and bloom  
in every color, leaf and plume.  
 
          ......