I haven’t done this in a long time…<\/p>\n
*\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *<\/p>\n
A hiss, a scrape, sometimes chittering
\nA dry leaf teases the pavement
\nGoaded by the wind which dares
\nTo vie with the sun for the rights
\nTo define the warmth of the day<\/p>\n
Not deigning to compete with the thunder
\nOr the driving rains, the season still
\nEmbraces sound, not in quantity,
\nBut in constance, the murmur of the crowds
\nOf dry grasses, erupting in surprise
\nAt the sudden gusts, themselves too fickle
\nTo stay for long<\/p>\n
The colors, by habit, cannot go unnamed
\nTaunting our senses with the hues
\nOf ripe fruit and new flowers.
\nA disguise, a hoax, they fade abruptly
\nLaughing at our responses
\nKnowing the winter will be revealed
\nBy their unmasking<\/p>\n
Misunderstood trees, bare and spindly The sun, disapproving, A roulette wheel of climates Impudent leaves, giggling and chuckling, The mornings bring patterns To sit enclosed by walls and wrestle *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *<\/p>\n No, I’m not a poet (duh!<\/em>) and to be honest, I don’t even like<\/em> poetry. I just started messing around with ideas a little in honor of the season – and even I<\/em> know how trite that is. So for everyone out there who’s into poetry or litritcher that wants to comment, just bear in mind the challenge of low-hanging fruit*<\/p>\n * Which is a stupid metaphor in itself. Of course<\/em> anyone would go after low-hanging fruit – what kind of idiot would climb to the top of the tree for some? Is the higher stuff supposed to be better in some way, or more prestigious? What a pointless expression…<\/font><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I haven’t done this in a long time… *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 *\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 * A hiss, a scrape, sometimes chittering A dry leaf teases the pavement Goaded by the wind which dares To vie with the sun for the rights To define the warmth of the day Not deigning to compete with the thunder Or the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[12],"tags":[2024,2025],"class_list":["post-13510","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-random","tag-aspiring-to-be-a-hack-laureate","tag-leaf-blowers-are-incredibly-stupid"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wading-in.net\/walkabout\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13510","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wading-in.net\/walkabout\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wading-in.net\/walkabout\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wading-in.net\/walkabout\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wading-in.net\/walkabout\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=13510"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/wading-in.net\/walkabout\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/13510\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wading-in.net\/walkabout\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=13510"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wading-in.net\/walkabout\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=13510"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wading-in.net\/walkabout\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=13510"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nFlout ironic detachment;<\/strong>
\nWearing a heavy coat all summer,
\nThey throw off their clothes
\nTo embrace the winter skyclad
\nFingerpainting dark lines
\nAgainst temperamental clouds.
\nClinging alone at a tip
\nAnd flashing defiance in the gales
\nJust one leaf ignores the directive
\nAnd waving smugly
\nLooks down on its brethren<\/p>\n
\nLowers its eye to glare sternly
\nThrough the licentious branches;<\/strong>
\nWe look away from its gaze quickly
\nBut bear the memory of the contact
\nIn purple stain on all else
\nOnly for moments<\/p>\n
\nSpins almost daily, to save us from
\nThe cloying monotony
\nOf dressing like yesterday.
\nIntrepid explorers, we brave
\nDark unexplored regions of our closets<\/p>\n
\nPlay upon manicured lawns
\nTo abandon themselves as their own forgotten toys
\nFostering screams of displeasure vented
\nWith monoxide gusts through plastic tubes
\nDrowning out the discussion of the air
\nAnd the branches
\nIn a wail of pointlessly saved labor<\/p>\n
\nOf frigid moisture staining
\nThe grasses and leaves like, well,
\nLike frost;<\/strong> To make a metaphor for
\nA most common metaphor itself
\nIs certainly meta, and probably
\nMisplaced effort<\/p>\n
\nWith ways to describe and express
\nMeans forgetting that words
\nAre mere substitutions;<\/strong>
\nBetter to engage
\nMany more senses
\nBy seeking firsthand
\nThe experience
\nOneself<\/p>\n