I’ve never known trees slumber better than a procession of quietness, of sadness and the shirking high pitches of forest
It’s a vulture of beauty turning to harshness in wild vines
and weeping robes of colors.
I cannot sleep with the sounds of forest telling me to throw a deep shadow and reflection into the narrow corridors of deepest prayers.
I feel a chin of fleeting temper seeing a mirage of somewhat white young leaves,
the happily retreating green lily leaves, forgetting the weariness wearing off .
I see a full ingratiating awareness of streaming lights, the lights of fading summer,
the earth a moisture of coming rains.
all desolation foliage,
all time crossing through a footpath of weightless steps,
of awareness floating into the surface of a dragged and decaying afternoon.