these
are braided days

leaves delicate
weaves

of last color
quick ribbons

of snow
tangled

through the grey fingers
of trees

and tie themselves
to me

what of this rain
                             cold
upon the leaf last free

what of this leaf
                             gold
upon a goldless tree

for once
to let them

both be
me

his hands

two pieces of wood
gnarled worn torn
by the wind
and the rain
and the sun

his eyes

two dark marbles
of laughter
of sadness

his voice

deep
soft
ancient

i almost did not understand him

how are you this morning i asked

can’t grumble sir no sir can’t grumble

listen           to the pebbles
                     and bells
                     of rain
                     against the window
watch          them pelt
                     into puddles melt
                     into the mouths
                     of flowers
listen           to what
                     is whispered
                     in between the falling
listen           to the earth sigh

birds not
                bats

are each
being eaten

like bubbles
                                                                               by alligators

grey tore
at the shore

and whitecapped
each wave

save
for the few

that tapped
my shoe

each gull
bentwinged dull

feathered sang of the sea
and of you

to me

the moon slurs
her words

plume like smoke
and feather fade

trace stitches
of stars unravel

black carvings
of birds

crease the netting
of trees

sunday morning children light
across the churchyard lawn

their grass stained laughter
lifts like leaves