The Yellow Trees

 
It’s October and I have not
written a word in two weeks,
other than imitations of Bashō,
each yellowed page
a drawing of an insect, a centipede perhaps,
or maybe
a small blackbird.
 
Nevertheless, I’m beginning to
understand his kinds of silences,
like the black steadfastness of roots
undisturbed in their underworld.
 
That is how
 
I sit on the old sofa listening to
the sound of rain in the yellow trees,
 
the way I hear,
as they sway knots of silence,
their coldness that tightens
my skin.
 
It seems intentional,
lines that scrape
borders of emptiness,
like angles of rain that soften
into streams from rooftops.
 
I’m glad.
I don’t want to shut my eyes
and tease out words, only
to see how they fall out
into scraps that,
when I dot my pen against them,
circle around other lives the way
raindrops tap on water
to explain in brief rings
their already dying planets.
 
I let them stick to darkness, instead.
Besides,
the leaves are pretty,
the way they rot, turning to glue.
 
Here, like small hands,
not even they hold on.

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