Remainders

listening to the chimes in the wind,
to the soft brush of branches
against the side of the house,
you curl your body
around the hollow of the night

around the quiet ache of losses,
count the remaining leaves
that whisper their stories to the glass,
clouds that stumble across the sky
longing for the pinpricked stars,
and the lonely half moon
that carries forward

curl around that pool of darkness,
drink of it and sleep,
rest and dream and wait
for morning's slow salve
the silent song of
the eastern sky


This is a manipulation of a stock photo.