The Sycamore Or Less

who really decides

without warning

when all the leaves will fall 

december

my sycamore leaves

my shade of night

struck down by some clumsy moon

perched in its pale branches

like some plump wingless bird

some thoughtless wind 

off this snowy mountain 

are gone

like so many memories 

lost to me

like the 

leaves

I rise

tidy up

the cold black room

dusty with stardust

a speck of star

struggling in a cobweb

wakes what's left

of the night

in me

jppestana novenber 30, 2016