Clippings in Cracks

Like clumps of grass that molder in the week
between the end of summer and the fall,
I wait for slow decay.  The words I speak
denote the patient mold.  The seasons crawl,
they stop and start, like blades of drifting grass
mowed down by summer’s swift poetic steel.
They linger in the cracks that came to pass
through winters I no longer wish to feel.
Eternal in-between, eternal time
becomes the demarcation of my voice,
progressing or regressing, rhyme to rhyme,
like clippings of the leaves of grass of choice.
Such cracks bear neither peace nor subtle fear,
but hide my words until they disappear.