Like the golden age 
of a lost civilization
autumn leaves blaze 
taking leave
of branches that gleam 
in the season’s frail light
the rail-to-trail empty
this solitary stroll
but these trees speak
a dendritic intercourse
in a crisscross of twig
and branch
a text almost indecipherable
to the human eye
 
the moon right before dawn
its rich pale yellow
a reflection of the sun 
light without heat
or heat only in the heart
like this— and the sound 
of my pen on paper
like a sigh
but its opposite
an inhale of breath
words 
winter’s trees