The year is taking place.
If the clouds by crawling had been saying
something, it is shape
which is water without jar or whistle.
It is terrible that we loved at a time like this,
white rolling over a tree
unetched by pining,
the dark of its root tipped
with toenails. Was time when chipped / red
would have been the issue. Who’s
looking? Had it been clued
the shadows had shadows,
would you have peeled soil on our behalf?
Hugger of my hugger,
song of my song.
Darling ways in which we tread too lightly.