1.
The butterfly yields.
May the wind stop.
The rock-bed feathers in fall leaves
the small hill.
This piling act
is insect time,
will coax a season
reasonably into life.
If the tree is a hand,
wrist and bone,
and the wind
a breath,
the butterfly yields dust.
2.
Now appear the new many,
without daylight will never be.
Trees in the park
mime their own ghosts.
3.
For unchecked growth
the circus
of color
is fire, is windborne.
Birth and age,
the young
need purchase
for both.
Now dry
they die and enliven it,
laughter grows
of it,
and energized arises.
All successes
are death successes.
4.
No, it was done from snow
this one. The skin is blue.
A tree rises
from the garden.
I go with the fingertips
of my deeds.
5.
Then the darker
equality of failure
in the fringe, small trees
pull together
all others through hunger —
so called apples fall.
We know it
as the litter of night
red, poor, or still unclear
and listen to it —
small trees protect
small birds
and sound
is the circumstance
the litter of neglect.
They refuse
to die
safe
because safety is kept
in failure.