Markers

A withered leaf of winter twisted dry and brown in summer wind.
Raindrops pelted fragile skin; shaking and breaking the clinging stem.
And it twirled to the ground midst thunder and lightning unseen.
There, the skeleton of winter past; crumpled; dead upon the green.

Outside a tiny house with all the windows lit at four; coyotes howl.
Sirens scream through the early hours before traffic starts to prowl.
The inhabitant, settled like dust on window sills into his nook,
waits the first bird song wrapped in perfume of ancient books.

Transient markers of seasons passed are wrinkles in the brow;
falling leaves that with the breeze take flight again somehow.
Barely noticed on the lawn when summer has raised the fields
And heat has choked the yellow spring from cups of daffodils