crumbles of sidewalk

and bits of sand

have contributed to misty mornings,

in deep purple woods,

and salty evenings in

far off red maple trees. we could

sit here and

speak of dusty paths

washed down with the sullen clouds

of that forever skyline

or spin stars into old lampshades

amid watered down billows of rain.

but nothing would fill the scores in kitchen chairs

or the silence of a worn green recliner.