In some hurricane
with a troubled-cat name,
I'm scrying who will hear from me
a mindless tuneless whistle.
I've split the furniture
one patio set of my brain from another,
an old rail fence from the next desk.
It is the full moon
who assumes he know the forest,
even as his light lessens and is lost
over the course of narrowing crescents,
then returns chastened to wax
cracking into late autumn cold.
Leafless sycamores wave warning
in the ghostly snow of moonlight on earth.
Birches snapped three storms ago, we lost locusts
last year when the beech crown came down.
The owner of the pond took it with him
when he died about a month ago:
His daughter saw him walk on it the night he died.
I had to steal from Dali what sky I could paint.