An hour of silhouettes:

It’s leaves like sponged paint

pressed against clean linen—

branches brushed with ebony 

in a heavy hand,

and dusted with amber streetlight—

trunks like wet pastels swept sideways, 

soaking into sleeping mulch. 


This hour is its own shadow, 

itself and its outline. 


A tree’s roots lengthen 

behind the drying oils

of these minutes.