All along they were
breaking, each bud
crowning into the bright
daylight of a new spring,
emerging from treetops like
feathers pluming out of caps,
green against the golden
halls of April.
In the woods on the longest day,
July sky filtered through
keyholes of clotted
maples, and the life of it all felt
nearer than skin, stretching
overhead and within me, a
pressing down and running over,
quiet like a memory. And now,
reverie at the heights of autumn
strips all the green away
to reveal the blood beneath.
Up on the old oak, the last leaf trembles,
vivid as a final garment sliding free,
wavering in shy silence,
xylans blushing at the
yearning caress of winter, the
zenith loveliest at the laying down.