Shining dried leaves of gold coins
Cool but not cold, crisp but not desiccating
Sky painted over with light, pale strokes
Sanguine ivy creeping through bark skin
Nestled past the graveyard encircled by hawks
As the last of the bees gather
Wooden fairy house staged from sticks and latched with leaves
Hushed hill of degrading green
The sun still hangs above, yet the crickets chirp
Wilting daisies and remnants of Black-eyed Susans
Squirrel waits by the amphitheater for a concert I suppose
Dry lake of reeds and towering Queen Anne’s lace
Brush your hand over them to hear the waves
Or wait for Eurus to kindly produce them
Snapdragons swim in shallower parts
Sandy coasts of stampedes surround the waters
I can hear mechanical echoes on the empty railroads
I wonder what their destination is
Never have I found a stiller willow
The Spanish graffiti says “you are my world”
Is it rustling leaves or something else beneath this creaking bridge?
Logs long-covered in lichen
There’s a forest of stinging nettles
I can see gold reach toward the sky
As I exit towards the graveyard
