Down Drift

Another day!
Cold here
like where you are
in the middle of
a continent,
the watch for winter on.

I, on its side,
waffle my way
through the crisp
crackle of words
like dry leaves
slipping earthward.

Wherever we are
in the toss of an instant
we fall toward
withered grasses,
our tongues
like perishing butterflies

whispering to the rose bud
through the hush
of faltering wing beats
to bloom again
in the dust
of beetle shells and memory.