On Second Thought

While we all wait for first frost
I watch her fight the lightest breeze
with slight success,
her only weapons
Two tiny, parchment-thin triangles –
pale yellow, ebony-edged –
Swinging on hinges hitched to her back.

I pity her as I observe
her struggle and foresee
how few days are left
Until frost fells her.
How little of the world
she shall ever know,
How feeble her accomplishments.
And yet I take my pity back;
she can fly, not I.

James Benedict
9/23/05