branch is scratching at the moon again,
and another etches with purpose ancient glyphs
in frost heavy on the second-story
reminders of inevitable ruin and decay,
of ice cream’s fabled emperor that always carries
I prefer springtime trees laden with lust and semen-sap
and their unfurling palette of glorious
These beginnings and endings, so deliberate and lean,
are a mystery to the middle-aged hand that opens
or executes scallions after mopping the floor,
to the brain enamored of rocking routine.
By necessity, our love affair with the spectrum of now
is an interlude at best, a breaking wave on the shore.