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.
Copyright @ 2014 by Chase Twichell. Used with permission of the author.