As soon as it’s organized,

New winds whip my world away.

Maybe it’s something I’ve said -

No, this is what I meant to say.

But storms grab my boughs and shred

Them on the ground.

I keep smoothing out the folds, 

The season tied up and bound.

But none of it holds.

Year after year the colors run

And I lie down before I sing.

Loose as any leaf,

Stripped of everything I’ve done,

And edited beyond belief, I

Can only add another ring, 

And turn again to sun.