Dawn the dew slips cold to footfalls,
Called to work or called to school.
Take a pen or take a shovel,
Every calling has its tool.

At mid-morning hear the teacher
Drill the chronicles of strife.
Through the window hear the preacher
Drone for everlasting life.

And the carver’s echoed chip,
And the arid scrape of chalk,
Tell a birth and date of death,
Tell the ticking of the clock.

Noon is not resigned to autumn,
Fan blades whirl, sun pushes down.
Summer shuns to reach the bottom.
Fall’s a verb and fall’s a noun.

Dusk, the rusty maples yielding,
Dusk, the ember, ash and frost,
Dusty script the sun forsaking,
Dusty couplets of the lost.

Leaves that plaster to the glass
With the autumn wind and rain
Leave disaster when they pass,
Leave with summer in their train.

And summer kicks us to the curb,
And summer plays us for a fool;
And "leaves" is both a noun and verb—
At least that’s what I learned at school.

There’s a schoolyard and a graveyard,
Slate leads in and slate leads out.
Chalked or chiseled, all the same,
Slate is what it’s all about.



Copyright Briar Rose 2008

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