"Seasons Change "

"Seasons Change"

Greg Budig 2020

Mornings become cooler. 

Days become short. 

The old maple out 

front, straight trunked with 

roots set firmly like fingers  

in the soil, is showing its age. 

Freckles of orange dot its 

once lush leafy green mane.

August was demanding,

it is time to rest. 

The signs are around me,

the breeze tells me so. 

Decidedly cooler, 

Canadian kissed, good 

for the soul.  It feels 

like light jackets and 

bonfires at night. 

Windows wide open,

 curtains softly breath.

Summer is slowing. 

The pulsating garden,

once heavy with life,

looks a little faded with 

yellowing leaves. 

Cucumbers stunted at 

the end of their vines. 

Their life source is 

now a million miles down. 

Tomatoes struggle to 

ripen plump red. 

The bird feeder bustles 

with fluttering wings. 

Chickadees soon come 

and go. Nuthatches amble 

along with the finches. 

The wrens no longer 

chatter, where have they 

gone? Like the robins 

they no longer care.

Butterflies circle aimlessly.

Magenta cosmos nodding. 

Monarch orange against 

deeply blue sky. 

Elegant swallowtails,

a viceroy or two,

pretending to be bitter 

for some clueless bird.

Wings become restless,

their season is passing. 

 

Days become golden. 

Skies turning bluer. 

School buses grumble,

their brakes screech

in the still morning air.

The signs are around 

me, August turns to 

September, how quickly 

we forget seasons pass,

seasons change. 

The End 

"Ode to Lake Crystal "

 

"Ode to Lake Crystal"

Greg Budig 2020

Placed lonely on the 

edge of town. 

Forgotten oasis.

Celebrated by none.

Except by salamanders,

minnows and reeds. 

The city rests on one side. 

Trees and farmland 

nestled on what's left. 

That is Lake Crystal. 

The water shimmers.

Morning light over 

the grain elevator.

Casting it's reflection 

upon the cattails and coots.

Rippling out across the 

prairie flat water.

Soft breezes flowing 

down Atlantic Avenue,

across Kjenstad park

and into the bay.

Further out the water 

spreads to each shoreline.

Widening into the 

main expanse of it all. 

A tree covered island floats 

alone in the distance.

Never been lived on. 

Never been owned. 

The island trees lash like 

ship sails during brief 

summer storms. 

Autumn stirs across 

the turning, steel blue 

waters. Brown and 

gold spread to the 

islands ancient trees. 

The air is now thick with 

migration.  Divers and

dabblers heading south. 

 Evening comes, skies 

explode into goose song.

Strange 

 to call it "Crystal ".

Too shallow for a lake. 

For a pond it's way too large. 

A playground for pelicans,

muskrats and frogs. 

A place of solitude for 

those who choose to stop. 

An abundance of 

discoveries 

for those who 

choose 

to stay. 

The End 

"The Horizon Stays the Same "

"The Horizon Stays the Same"

Greg Budig 2020

The horizon has been breached. 

A thin muted gold line divides it.

Breaking the fragile plane 

between morning and night. 

Glowing in layers, watercolor 

hues. Yellow, apricot and 

red bleed slowly into the 

dissolving purple black sky.  

The prairie horizon awakens.

The nighthawks have been 

calling long before the 

residential robins opened 

up their eyes.  Diving and 

twisting on banded wings. 

Slicing the morning air. 

Meadowlarks echo over the 

landscape, familiar music 

to those who listen.  

Poets of the prairie horizon. 

Waves of tall grasses 

roll and surge 

towards the horizon.  

So many shades of green 

blend softly into amber. 

Bluestem, sedges, 

dropseed and cordgrass.

Moving on the breeze 

in synchronized waves,

like a prairie ballet. 

The pothole sits round 

amongst the cattails 

and slough pumpers. 

Sticky black mud smelling 

sweetly of decay. 

Redwings trill while the 

yellow heads screech,

marsh wrens chatter 

and bicker in the reeds. 

Fence posts stride in 

jagged lines and then vanish 

like dots on the horizon. 

Fields of grains, beans and 

corn stitched together 

like squares in a quilt. 

The farmer is rooted in the 

soil, like the cottonwood 

out behind the old barn. 

A romanticized vision 

for artists and poets. 

Lost sacred grounds for 

the Lakota and Sioux.

A new home for settlers,

 the immigrant families. 

The prairie is always 

changing, but the 

horizon stays the same. 

The End 

"Some Days "

 

"Some Days"

Greg Budig 2020

When there's nothing 

left to feel,

how do you feel?

When it's so 

difficult to care,

why should you care?

Some days are like that. 

Some days are not. 

You worry your 

whole life, so how 

should you worry?

The anxieties are 

real, so why are 

you so anxious?

Some days are good. 

Some days are not. 

You're just feeling 

a little tired, so 

why can't you sleep?

"I'll get to that 

tomorrow", so why 

don't you just start?

Some days are better. 

Some days are not.

Some days are 

full of feelings. 

Some days I 

really do care. 

Some days I 

have no worries. 

Some days no 

anxieties there. 

Some days I 

am not tired. 

Some days I 

can do a lot. 

Some days 

are full of joy.

Some days 

they are not. 

The End 

"August Tomatoes "

"August Tomatoes"

Greg Budig 2020

July has slid into August. 

Seamless, though 

somehow full of change. 

The heat  has spread

deep into the mosquito 

evening. Lingering into 

the sultry hours of night. 

Ripening in nature begins. 

Tomatoes are 

becoming like teenagers.

Developing hormones as 

they awkwardly mature. 

Ethylene mingles with 

the stagnant August air,

causing changes we have 

long for desired. 

Little green orbs that 

appeared in June, 

a sign that quickened 

your heart. Lovingly 

watched as the summer 

progressed, growing 

plumper and rounder 

each day. 

Monsoon rains in July 

caused the fruits to 

expand, they bloated 

like toads on the vine. 

They grew heavy and 

cracked, crowded in green 

clustered clumps, they 

battled for space in the cage. 

A certain paleness begins,

a yellowish hue, soon the 

color has changed to soft 

orange. The fat ones in 

the middle are the first 

ones to transform,

why are they always 

the hardest to reach?

Then the redness appears,

rich and tempting to 

the eye. Against the 

contrast of the green 

leaves and vines. 

Just wait another day!

A voice says inside, fight 

the urge, just let it go!

Now is the day!

Your hand finds the warm 

fruit, softly turning to 

break the thick stem.

Hold it up to the sun,

be amazed by the 

color. The fullness,

the roundness, the weight. 

Making the first slice,

for this you have waited,

your senses draw in 

the sweet smell. 

Like feasting on summer,

 flavors linger on your 

tongue, August tomatoes 

picked fresh from the vine. 

The End 

"Unrequited Love Song "

 

"Unrequited Love Song"

Greg Budig 2020

To fall in love is 

so easy to do 

To be in love is 

something more.

Unrequited love is 

so wasteful, but it's 

something we all endure. 

To fall in love is 

so hopeful. 

To be in love is 

sublime.

Unrequited love is 

emptiness, a persistent 

loss of time. 

In youthfulness 

we wander.

Adrift in a 

romantic pool. 

Searching for any 

port in the storm. 

You end up being a fool. 

You see her at 

the local joints, the 

conversation of the town. 

She sees you from 

across the room, 

and then she quickly 

turns around. 

It's dangerous 

to get seduced by 

someone you don't need. 

Don't chase the 

unattainable,

they'll only laugh 

and watch you bleed.

To fall in love is 

everyone's dream. 

To be in love is 

a dream to realize. 

Unrequited love is 

a dated pop song. 

Unrequited love is all lies. 

The End