Poetry: Idle Freedom




The somnolent sun tosses amber light

To the twisty trees flush with rich, green leaves,

That saunter to the light as if they were

Snagging a lazy fly ball. Water flows

Weakly under an indifferent breeze

That feels as if it had just awoken

From an afternoon nap. In a few months

These images will vanish as the sun

Becomes a useless ball, a heartless joke,

The trees stripped raw, the leaves a sad carpet,

The water suspended in time, the breeze,

Mad with tense wakefulness, will change its name.

Huddling by fires, we will damn cold winter

And long for warm nights of idle freedom.