In weeds I hear the rusting crickets sing.
The leaves, like dreams, are fleeing from their tree.
The song is music more of fall than spring.

The aching bells are sadder in their rings
Then old men praying blindly on their knees.
In weeds I hear the rusting crickets sing.

I stand in rags among the scraps of song
That pleased the children singing in the trees.
The song is music more of fall than spring.

The weeks are gently bending. What will bring
The fleeting leaves back happy to their trees?
In weeds I hear the rusting crickets sing.

I wish that all the lovely dead would bring
Back this lonely man’s reprieves
Whose singing is more weeds than of spring.

Life is an autumn filled with many things
That bring a saddened pilgrim to his knees.
In weeds of darkness rusting crickets sing.
Their song  is music more of fall than spring.

Richard Kirkwood (1931-2013) taught at UWEC for 35 years. He was a beloved friend, colleague, and teacher of many.