My father’s Oaks: harbingers of fall.
Their acorn hats are rough and dark, fully saturated
Sitting on the ground or levitating softly.
Moths take flight out of the earth, invisibly,
As my foot threatens death.
Nearby they settle like flakes of manna.
Where I stand now I had dreamt a field of Abutilon, tall and strong;
My brain’s processing of the weekend events: the county fair-
And faint remnants of an obliged passion.
There are hidden woodpiles
In dark-lit backrooms of the forrest
Playing poker, smoking cigars: malodorous.
The sun hides somewhere in the day, concealing time
But we are secret captains of the sky: magnificent.
We find dog shit and fresh lime grass on the ground
While quivering branches, freckled with yellow leaves,
Dispatch those who wish to not wait; join them
Harbingers of fall.