Time of the Southern Sun

In the time when the tiniest of flitters
flutter through the sinking light
that catches the drifting silks
of the sly and hungry weavers,
the earth can slowly sigh
and take in a moment of rest.
For this is the time of the Southern Sun,
when green gives way to gold
and crimson and blushing violets.
The skies fill up with vivid
hues that return from their
long and distant journey to the
Northern lands of ice.
They return to reminisce
with the children of the Southern Sun
and hear tales of how the earth
has greatly provided abundance
once more for the lengthy nap ahead of them.
The setting rays lull one to
heed the season's pending warning,
and overwhelming calm
relaxes all senses, while the tiny flitters
flutter in and out of the hungry weaver's silks.
Their illuminated wings twinkle
with their rapid movement,
busy in their own endeavors
to stave off the frost's lethal grasp.
Their larger counterparts have all
but gone, as the icy nips have already dealt their blow.
Yet the tiny flitters still flutter
in this time of the Southern Sun
when the warmth lingers just a little longer.

Clocking

The impetuous fourth dimension
serves cold meals to its dwellers,
and no offer,
no bribe, no entreat
can ever buy it from its sellers.
Lucifer's own lips can't loosen
the ticking away from the tock.
The true master
has mastered
the unending hands of the clock,
and has placed that rhythm, life's
own pulse, within each mortal being.
Off they scurry,
keys turned tight,
while their own ticking is fleeing.
Pass from glance to day, season
to era, then eon and far beyond,
clocks reviewed
and recycled,
wait for the master to respond.
No other intervention can attempt
to turn the hands of each clock,
neither forward
nor in the past,
for each lives a measured walk.