Photo by Jasmine Ross

In the time when one season

advances into the next,

I went along the orderly paths

where trees have now,

in place of leaves, raindrops

that cling and clasp

at the tip of every branch,

catching the sun’s weakened

light, and asked the wind

to take me along to a grove

of such trees to better watch

the gleaming.

“No!” she cried, gusting

up and all around.

“Well then,” I said,

“should I ask the hawthorns,

or the finches that flit

from here to there?”

“They’re taking

all the light,

she said, “and there

isn’t enough left

to go around.”

“Well now, I don’t know

about that,” I said.

“Maybe something else,

unnoticed, is slipping

the light out,

or perhaps long-used,

it has lost its touch, or

it could even be

that it is simply taking its time

in coming back to you.”

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