Phosphenes float in the fleecy clouded sky,
like restive woken walkers, weaving to work.
The withered yellow leaves have all but died;
the worn arms that held them plea for a perk.
The grass-blades shave their early morning frost
as the sun ascends and purifies the night.
The cows complain about the latest milk costs;
the price could not justify the budget's bite.
The wind's peppermint breath conceals its scent
plundered from depths of desperation,
a breakfast of sulfurous sorts, nights spent
ruing the winter's rapid inflation.
And as day swaps shifts with the oscitant moon
the phosphenes know they have arrived too soon.