The light that leaves the woods,

That winds the leaves in wooden 

Shade and lightens trees

With evening wind, leaves us too,


Us two leaning up against the wounds

Of last night's storm, wound

Tight and lean as roots around

The summer crop of fungus, glen,


And fern, bound like books

In apples' smell of stems:

Not that night in turn

Couldn't hold us still and spellbound


On the summer sheets,

Couldn't stem the tide

Of seasons on the ground

With repeats of fireflies,


Its dots of ink-like rain, the growl

Of thunder in our midst,

Growing as we fade away,

Heat lighting


The inevitable downpour:

If night falls in the forest,

Who says we alone should

Mourn, we, the eyes of all


The world, with certain rights

To leave a thing alone

Or let it lie the way it fell?

We get it backward in the nights:


Blindness doesn't leave us

Striped of feelings, touch, or sight:

Pure light never leaves us

As much as we ourselves leaves light.



September 17th, 2008