The leaves ignore the season,
dying in brown bouquets
bunched in the fists of branches,
waving at the restless empty
heaven always was, waving wild at
the clock watching sun.
Trees seeing with their
inward eyes smooth blue skies to
drowse below as you settle
between soil and sun,
vigilant limbs in fitful meditation
the world in how it’s taken.
It all goes away, the luck
dries up and the roads
all end up dead. The steady
chill enters the bones joint by
joint, the marrow grows
mournful and coarse, these mortal
hours always counted down,
the fall comes faster and faster,
brittle broken branches
make way for fresh chances and
unborn buds yet to be while
time and love pare away the possible
watching everything as it goes away
