Beyond the autumn of overhanging branches
Whose woven checkerboard of dangling light
Blots out time’s patient horizons,
We trim away at openings
Leaves spill forth from open limbs
Like hands whose skin collects those
Oil-dashed tears of passing rain
Sieving possibilities from promises.
Within darkness the many-mountained moon
Wait they admonish me:
Allow the scent of months to first ferment
Turning cocoons whose dark, moth dreams
Forecast the unveiling of summer.
And in these between days listen carefully
For the siren song of tides
Until the lighthouse hours arrive
With the budding, earthly glow of leaves.