Time climbs
the sycamores,
seeking a resting place,
      a nesting place
to contemplate its passing.
No words can express
    the sadness.

Wind whips across
              the lawn,
scattering leaves,
slapping trees
             for their insolent
             refusal to fall.

All directions collapse
            into one,
            into none
worth following.

We break under the weight
               of the void.
It insists on absolute
               emptiness.
I am full, a plenum.

This phrase tells no one
             the truth.
Words scatter on the wind.
Words crackle in the leaves.

Poets guard ancient
            initiation rites.
Mystery settles on the Muse.

Silence burrows underground,
           digs for gold.
Only dull ore rises
            to the surface.

Flakes scatter on the wind,
            disjointed,
            clattering
through the sleepy dawn.

Shadows obscure Time
              as it exhales
              the past.

The future photosynthesizes,
               green, green,
               with broken
               promises.

Time weeps for no one.

Broken limbs, tenuous twigs
              snap under
              the weight
              of a plenum.

Time wrestles the void.

Time is full.
             But it’s
                         cracking.