Each Autumn

light reclines like a child asleep in

a knapsack of dreams.

Shadows inch their way up trunks; trees laved in autumn’s

scant glow.

The child only pretends to sleep,

secretly watches leaves as they

scrub wind.

If dreams carry a scent, imagine the feast reclining pillows have decked out in their

white gowns.

The cunning forest of the silent

green world shoots for earth’s

ripe vacancies.

Dark is the place where music

is made.

The season’s first notes

the hardest.