summer always ends
on a wednesday in my head
my half-baked braincase
buzzing like a timber rattler
winter comes in its own time
to whomever needs it most
densely furred
full of absence
imagine being perennial as a tree
regrowing sex organs every year
the oaks i walked among today
were characters in a no-movie
each leaning into their role
but who hid the script
we swayed in the wind
which brought distant cries
this might be a horror scene
that’s the trouble with scripts
on a wednesday the first beech bark disease
on the mountain stopped me cold
smooth gray bark broken out
in pointillist rashes
this mountain’s only gold
is fool’s gold
a full moon
through the trees
blinking on and off
as clouds scud past
so much can go wrong
between one tree and the next
this might be the year
for bird flu or world war three
but summer always ends
on a wednesday
