In fall
the cricket
beneath the rose bush
watches
as the roses fall
to the very ground
that is his kingdom also.
So they’re neighbors,
one full of fragrance,
the other
the harper
of a single dry song.
We call this time of the year
the beginning of the end
of another circle,
a convenience
and nothing more.
For the cricket’s song
is surely a prayer,
and a prayer, when it is given,
is given forever.
This is a truth
I’m sure of,
for I’m older than I used to be,
and therefore I understand things
nobody would think of
who’s young and in a hurry.
The snow is very beautiful.
Under it are the lingering
petals of fragrance,
and the timeless body
of prayer.