Summer tilts toward autumn
one October morning
so sudden I thought
I’d left the door ajar.
What force puffs my sphere
To wobbling in vacant air?
I sat a chair while asking
if such wobbles edge
across the spacelake
like where dropped a stone
upon a mountain lake
one summer day.
Or return where snows
slip green and naught
but nighted wood
its shadows grown
until no sun rises?

And,
what of my soul
ebbing and flowing
like a bay of tides
as if all is pushed
when set just right
as if peace wants dispeace?