The rock-bed feathers in fall leaves
the small hill.

This piling act
is insect time,

will coax a season
reasonably into life.

If the tree is a hand,
wrist and bone,

and the wind
a breath,

the butterfly yields dust.






2.




Now appear the new many,
without daylight will never be.

Trees in the park
mime their own ghosts.






3.




For unchecked growth
   the circus
      of color

is fire, is windborne.
     Birth and age,
        the young

need purchase
     for both.
        Now dry

they die and enliven it,
     laughter grows
        of it,

and energized arises.
     All successes
        are death successes.






4.




No, it was done from snow
this one. The skin is blue.

A tree rises
from the garden.

I go with the fingertips
of my deeds.






5.




Then the darker
equality of failure

in the fringe, small trees

pull together
all others through hunger —

so called apples fall.

We know it
as the litter of night

the litter of neglect.

They refuse
to die

safe
because safety is kept

in failure.