Here these leaves, smoldering
to disco beats in minor keys,
promise us build and renewal
while geckos take up telemarketry
and rockets pull rhythm, dance
cloudless and unlined, return
clean as a feast of bones,
cosmic, reflective of desire
and suture-sewn plans to warm
this writhe down narrow valleys
that vultures rise from whispering
of stories without a second act.
But there is always an and then, ever a next;
so look at your hands, love them,
and hold on.