Archive
09/14/09
Molting Time
Every month, or so it seems to me, The year's undulating days, Slithering through shadow-reticulated grass,
Molt their translucent skins, Leave gossamer traces of their passing, For us horo-herpatologists.
Without those brittle crisps as evidence, We might never suspect the days' trespasses, Rather assume that the tall grass
Provides an underground railroad, Allows them to get away, with impunity, Right beneath our eyes.
But if we could corner one escaping day, Try to snare and bag it, It might bite us, poison us, even kill us.
09/14/09
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