The Yellow Trees

It’s October and I have not
Written a word in two weeks
except for scraps that resemble a few lines
by Bashō.
Nevertheless, I’m beginning to
Understand these kinds of silences
Sitting on an old sofa listening to
the sound of rain in the yellow trees.

It seems intentional,
not a word for this emptiness.

I’m glad.
I don’t want to close my eyes
and look for one
See how fast it fills with things
I’ve stuck to darkness.
Besides, the leaves are pretty,
the way they rot, becoming glue.

Here, nothing else will ever happen.