the days bleed
as I do with the moon
cut into shapes
unrecognizable
I hold them in my hand with a furrowed brow.

the leaves are falling in slow motion.
the leaves are f a l l i n g  i n  s l o w  m o t i o n

T. Robbins tells of autumn, it breeds the birth of death
so the smell of the birth of death lingers
on the ground, under our bare feet.

when winter passes
the leaves will float back up to the trees
and then death is dying.

the leaves become alive with green
the sun warms winter bones

so the smell of life spreads from the trees to the ground
where I stand dying
in slow motion.
we are all d y i n g  i n  s l o w  m o t i o n