Trees
The dawn came to keep me company,
when the clock cried
alarmingly
for the apocalypse
of my shadow.
The sky,
anciently cloven by emerald,
now poured shafts
through burdened cobwebs
of mist.
I wrote on the ground,
and spoke to the leaves,
when darkness embraced their heights,
when they had nightmares of people.
The mountains are almost bare,
now,
captive
in the reclining
flood.
Resting all over,
the Spring will call their names.
The trees have grown scarce,
their leaves dumb,
deaf,
refusing to chat.
My stories, my promises, my failures
belong to one and all.
Reborn,
they shall fail to remember
the Spring.