Monday, October 24, 2016


The morose interstellar
wind's soundless call

shall not ever
seem to be

for poetry—and yet
sheer poetry

shall forever be
the unwavering answer—wherever,

out in the remotest
cold tendril of the galaxy,

even the most
strategically positioned of leaves

on some vast shivering silverbright
alien tree

is somehow at once, both
so casually

and so boldly
jettisoned in consequence,

and turning,

for the last

time, all its color—
as involuntarily

yet irrevocably
as each one

of seven-or-so billion
tiny rainbows

which repeatedly
flair up,

spin out,
then plunge down around

a palish blue
dew drop—at least thirty two

times per second,
each second.