a life above glass

The melody of fallen grass, gathered now
  a staccato thrum of diesel and the rumours
  spread by crickets and katydids

What would you do with a ticking clock
  poised above you?
  Don't touch me now, it still hurts
  just watch the deer, and remark on the way
  she touches paper as though it were a touchscreen
  waits patiently for printed signs to scroll;
  that's the tragedy of a life above glass
  that's the call of the untrammeled woods
  that's the smell of a home in a mountain ruin.

There's a way of walking these switchback paths
  to transcend locomotion
  eyes sweeping the paths like a monk's brush
  when do the leaves stop being beautiful?
  Not in spring's flourescence,
  nor the summer opalescence of shade attacked by a blunderbuss
  not autumn's livid flush of rage in the face of time
  
But after the snow, perhaps
  they are a little less than leaves
  not quite plum-rich earth
  just a place to stand, and marvel
  at a life beneath emerald skies
 a mown lawn, not made to tread.