by on December 27, 2012 :: 0 comments

It’s over now, all summer,
The strong
Brought back to life.
Mouth to mouth words couch
Their sentences of guilt:
The leaves, the thieves
Of sky, smotherers of careful
Night. The trees, their
Windings’ rhythm sung;
On its way
November drowns its rural
Twisted skin.
One season gathered in
The Earth’s unnatural
Coiled day;
A moon hung
On winter’s full stare.
It’s over now, all
Summer’s serrated leaves.
The hilt
Of February’s touch
Turns each knife
To spring
The unseen drummer.

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