When it is Time
The beeches were the last to leave. Too stately maybe
or too full of themselves they stayed on, blazed more
fiercely copper in the sun, soaked up dusk until they inked
to darkness. Then they threw their arms around the stars,
called them theirs, their one and only.
I stand beneath their night, stand between it and
my own, and imagine pinheads of glitter swaying above me.
In time, when I myself begin to sway as I know I must,
I shall search for seeds, even the splinter of a
single star, to hurl into the empty skies.