I rest in silence
after a slow victory
and polish each silken blade
between my rigid fingers.
Forgotten leaves that had stood to witness
last season’s end
rest like velvet in my palm.
The lines stand on each creation,
hand and leaf,
and sing silently of unseen days.
They are a temporary record
of what has come to pass.
The tree beside me leans in a drunken posture,
Its spine contorted to fit times mold.
The black, brittle branches reach out
to touch an indifferent sky.
A creamy glow has been delicately painted here and there,
while shadows stand in between;
darkness left over from an eternal night
that has yet to melt away.