Random Acts of Poetry

Transition

I search for inspiration in the sky,
but it looks as tired as I,
no fierce dragons or angels overhead,
ragged and torn the clouds are spread.
The parched grass is serrated lances,
twixt belt and shirtwaist it spitefully dances,
as I lie here in this lifeless field.
The flowers withered, only seeds now yield.
The hapless bee drawn by a false sun,
doesn’t know his season is done.
He has scarce begun to hum,
before the cool of evening will come.
The trees prepare to say goodbye,
for songbirds and leaves soon will fly.


Task Prompt:
Write a poem focused on any season using only sensory details (sight, sound, smell, touch, taste).