Weeping branches across tepid pond,
dipping in calling wind
rustling leaves to birth a symphony
cascading limbs reaching a crescendo
morphing with accompaniment of trilling peckers;
near-sighted singers, trembling warblers.
And in it’s timeless waiting
lines sink lower in abasement
extolled only by shadowed girls of white
pure through the bruises
radiant among brown speckled skin.
Yet as the leaves fall,
so do the freckles,
overturned by years of dark windows;
and waning light trapped between smudged windowpanes.
They land with the browned leaves
and all are trampled.