God fashioned tree…
tree shepherds air
inspires a fife
and shelters life
it’s counted, tree
by Grandest Hands
its inner work
not built to shirk
we bind with tree
we mark it ours
we sense its cross
its stoic thoughts
we rot with tree
we slight its bark
tree harvests mud
tree lines the blood
that hangs from tree
that burns from tree
we turn from tree
return to tree
we stare at tree
& tree stares back
— tree is still tree — —
but what are we?
two septembers purfle the paths
(as too, decembers, marches, and junes)
and end a term…begin a term…
passaging pigments: golden-strewn,
with emerald-orange and rufescent.
and through the maple-mania’s fringe,
plucking dimmer-blooms away,
the witches of the “-embers” spin
and nip across the vistas’ cheek
of branches and of sweatered-towns,
and then rework the gossamers
that mist about new playing-grounds.
the eyes of the central boughs,
they read the air’s impermanence,
adjust to ninth-apostle’s moon,
and seize the fall as recompense.
september trees are doyennes now.
their leaves partake in turns of splendor
in hours of music and sapphirine —
their lastest waltz before the winter.