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.