Yesterday
I ground up leaves
and gave away my poem.
The leaves will be
returned to the earth.
The poem flew away like a dove.
In the weeks ahead,
when November settles
like gray fog,
I will remember the poem,
see the leaves
quilted with snow,
and the dove
will have forgotten
what it left behind.
I stare into the naked branches
of the trees.
Will count the stars
of a winter evening.
See meteors missed
in the verdancy of summer.
I am preparing
for a world
going to sleep,
songs,
left by wings
vanished in the air,
and midnight snowfalls
unmarked by trails.