Successive planes whine south,
like unmoored stars.
I have a window full of trees,
the straggly apple like so many
balletic arms in curves,
interspersed with sparse, red orbs
charming the birds. The big leaf
maple hovers, every year
engulfing more of the yard.
Further back, a Douglas fir, a hazelnut
and sky, blue or gray or indigo,
clouds or summer smoke.
Time is not spared. I sit, as usual,
in the corner of the red couch, gazing,
as my bones thin and my skin loosens,
as a ghostly moon emerges
and field mice natter in the walls.