The fingertips of the trees leave space for the
sky.
The sun with his prowess gives them light
while
branches flow as veins of the earth.

Streaks of clouds like ribs to the sky,
winding
as an atlas of forgotten paths,

dance o'er shaded silhouettes
of
yesterday's bounty.

The fallen leaves of yesteryear's grace
ebb
to their resting and etch their monument
in
time.

And the moon, supple in her gesture,
whispers
the star dusted secrets of tomorrow's

fortune.