10-17-2013

When the leaves have fallen
To the last,

There is no
Possibility
Of branch-lifted leaves
Moving
In wind
Against a harvest moon.

And without harvest
The moon is same
As any month,
Leafless
Or otherwise.

Roads are that way,
In their waiting:

The expectations
They lift up
Through themselves;

That path behind the chapel
At college
That quits itself
And becomes
A thick.

That drive home
From
Alongside wreckages.

Yet

When the leaves have fallen
To the last,

The harvest moon
Is uncovered
Easily

From beneath the black wet branches.