1/15/2017

The trees undo themselves once a year.
Each fall folds
Upon itself into a winter.

All is imperceptibly slow. Then
Fast, fast.

Until all time is a flickered blur
Of falling orange on white,

Misremembered sadnesses;

Hoped, dreamt light
In the deep dark
That goes
Over barn roofs,

The impossible miles

Of black limbs
Reaching, up.