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.”
