to a tree in September

You too grow yellow
as the sun enters
the equinox.
The shadows cut sharp
against the pale clouds
merged with the haze
Where the sea breathes
Another storm.

Your branches lose
the whispering weight
and turn to silver.
Chattering starlings come
and throng away whistling
an almost wedding song.

The seeds have scattered
for small birds to peck
and fatten for
the snows that might
or might not
be as bitter as the summer
draught was not sweet.

The golden rays
chortle and land
precognizant of nothing
but the chill and the wind
and that all things pass
into the ground or above

as the flat earth floats
on the back of the turtle
towards eternities.

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