like chaff

Sudden wind gust.
Road made thresh-
ing floor;
                 leaves
swirl
         down; birds
                            swirl
up. This heaven’s harvest
always backward:
                           light
bits
       fall while
                      weighty
rise. Our wise call
foolish this: treasure drawn
skyward by Gravity
which laughs at
                       ours,
leaves
            us to
                      gleeful
counting, mounding
feather-light
gold, becoming dust.

 

©2012 by Stacy Nott

2 thoughts on “like chaff

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