With the leaves gone
a pageantry departs
all pretense of grooming
as only the dead
are so transparent.

When I walk in them
a grove like bones
the sun makes clear lines.
I tend to think
in lifespans.

They overlap, the patterns
only seen from above
when the summer woods
are full of noisy green
rooms. But through

these colder limbs
a circular truth
doesn’t need explaining,
warmed by the razor-blue
of shorter days.



Image Credits: Marcela

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