Out of the language tree
The leaves float down.
Whirling, they criss and cross
Writing new patterns on the ground,
Slowly coding this year’s messages.
Below, the wadded strata
From the past years
Distil and mature old meanings.
And down among the roots,
Half-forgotten, skeletal memories
Muted by the loam,
Stir in their sleep,
Mutter and moan.
And way above, twig ends,
And within bud, dream
Of meanings for next year,
And the next, and the next.
Every year the same tree,
Roughly the same shape and size.
And every year a subtle
Change of size and shape;
A small surprise –
A limited escape.