6 Dec

It's at a time like this,
when the buzz hum hiss
of day falls in mothwing spirals,
smoke wisps, exhales,
glitterfall, rainmusk, poetry
of autumn, leaf life sapped,
green to yellow, fermented
into scribbled thoughts,
that are feelings missed, and caught
between day's and night's kiss,
a time,
an oak slow-tick time,
a breadcrumbs-in-the-woods time,
like this.