Needle Symphony

Grass blows still, and some trees speak through the gust,

their chant imminent as rich, tender

Memory lights sky, fading softly to dust

 

like mulch crushed underfoot. We entrust

our happiness to its pleasant cacophony when we remember

grass blows still, and some trees speak through the gust. 

 

You might rest your head as the sun peaks just

over the horizon, a cool sunlit surrender, 

but Memory lights sky, fading softly to dust

 

as the world disrobes its cloak of moonlight. Crust

forms on your eyelids melded, and the week is soon drunk into a benders.

but grass blows still, and some trees speak through the gust

 

with voices chained together like the cities of rust-

laden scrapheaps where we sometimes congregate in September. 

Memory lights sky, fading softly to dust

 

and I wake at five anyway, sussed

out by the ping of an email received though I’m no pretender;

grass blows still, and some trees speak through the gust.

Memory lights sky, fading softly to dust.

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