Sweep, sweep. Sweep, sweep. Now sweep the yard
In steady rhythm, carefully,
Not too easy, not too hard.
The Summer has begun to fall.
Not that our Spring had failed to shed
Its seed on bed and lawn and all.
Sky’s overcast, the wind is cool.
Some wrinkled leaves, branchlets galore
Are underfoot and more dead things,
Obsolete; decay begins its rule.
Sweep, sweep. Sweep, sweep. Now sweep the drive.
Grey caulk around the house is worn.
I note: The plastic dust-bin’s lid is torn.
My broom sweeps sand and thus disturbs a hive
Of very, very tiny ants.
Oh, I really like this a lot!
ReplyDeletePerhaps another poetic impulse would be a very good point of focus just now, what do you think, Michelle?
ReplyDeleteVery nice... Sweep, sweep. Sweep, sweep... Who knew that word, repeated in just the right way could sing and capture a mood? Lovely.
ReplyDelete