There are times to edit, summarize –
close chapters and move towards
some purpose for the words, rise
with the sun and let syllables float
across the colored pool and through
its rain of leaves—all that I wrote
baked behind me, November, alive
like spring. We are winter people
grazing changes as they arrive
from the endless black and blue
sky. We pause to look up, wish
and pray, find gods to tip glasses to—
we are oaks with acorns at our feet,
long-limbed sycamores dancing naked
in the rain—no time to be discrete.
drycrikjournal 