A breeze blows on the dry leaves, 
Soft- crunching under our footfalls 
When thoughts flow in a pageant 
Their slowly crawling centipede 
Being much like a human chain.
Their poetry exists in fine words; 
Their rhythms beat alive as in life 
Their symmetry surreal and  pretty. 

Beauty-words gently fall like mist
Of December dripping from leaves. 
Our own transience feels like birds 
In the blue above green treetops. 

Now, in the summer sky’s torpor, 
We are stretching vision skyward
Until tiny luminous tadpoles swim 
In pools of tears in our raised eyes. 
Here, a dog becomes a mere image 
On the rock where it belongs, staring 
Quietly in joyful photo-luminescence.