Senescence
1.
Trees wore leaves summer long,
locked in the language of birch or sycamore,
sounding the blue with their own song.
We felt sorry for some
with luggage of foliage,
wrinkled bark and lead-heavy boughs.
They have spent summer
with clouds on wooden shoulders,
wind straining their arms.
Others inhaled air as carelessly as birds,
found philosophy in weather,
the coming of night and day.
2.
Leaves on the ground are fire
trying to recall the light,
return to innocence remembered hours.
They all burn
to the colour of sunsets,
of stags and dying salmon,
soon will have
spent what they had,
turn inwards,
no longer weight of the universe
on a green palm,
nor rain shed from agile skin,
stretch from habit
as the wished for and almost met,
slip back from where they came.
They are thinner now, transparent,
adhere to walls and paving stones,
lose their edges and become unclear.
Leaves numerous as days
surrender the weight of themselves,
said once to the wind what there was to say,
were confident in light or darkness,
different from each other
as stone from star.
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