The glistening rays
of a winter sun
blessed by morning
drops of dew.
A single leaf
lay flat on a bed
of black asphalt.
Golden-brown,
the life drains
from its veins
like the last breath
of a dying animal.

A chorus line:
my beloved oaks,
arms reaching and
bending toward the
the sun. They signal a
change. A new
season. While the
air is brisk, the
ground soften
beneath my feet, 
and I feel 
what can’t
be told.

Red apple scents.
Leaves burning.
Pipe smoke rising.
The rough of my
father’s bristled
beard against my
innocent face and
laughter, deep
and soulful.

There is
no joining
of time to space.
There is nothing
to say. Just rest
your head on
the shoulders of
the dying.
Be consoled
by listening to an
icy winter song,
and let your heart
rejoice.


Susan Ward Trestrail, 2016