on glancings

never

The clouds’ disintegrating script

spells out the word squander.

Tree shadows lie down in the field.

Clipped to a grass blade’s underside,

a crisp green grasshopper

weighs down the tip,

swaying between birth and death.

I’ll think of him as we clink

glasses with the guests,

eating olives as the sun goes down.

poem by: Chase Twichell