If one could ever begin to twist
like the branches of trees we all derive from
there would be no lack of certainty
in the whims of our sunlight-driven whispers.
when last did you seek warmth without knowing
there is cold to be given in return?
How long will you stand still, shouting
that the evening has left you unturned?
No, the dirt that is shoveled leaves
answers in its wake.
You can add mulch,
It matters not to your blue spruce.
The only matters a pine needle considers
are those just as pointy as
a minute itself.
Picture a frame
made entirely of dusk.
realizes its own potential
just as the sun
that which we all have decided