Little Muchness
       

Some shouting and the tree came down branch by branch,
my not so fast a little late.

Now the wood burns and as usual I think my house is on fire.
Thus June ends.

What is with the world, I asked, and laid my cheek against the mantel.
I'm certainly not the first.

The sunset shrugs—see ya—and goes over the next-to-last mountain.
This is what not settling looks like.

I suppose a brave man might take this opportunity to get braver.
I'm done, so I'll wait in the kitchen.

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Copyright © 2012 Mary Ann Samyn All rights reserved
from Crazyhorse
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission