october thirtieth time

Yawns of light rattle out
like princes among a tense
citizenry of leaves. Every morning
is an opportunity to justify a natural
hierarchy. Does the black soil stew
in its own dankness when a brilliant,
delicate son does not grace it with
a silver sliver of tongue? No. The land
grows. It mosses and mushrooms
and flourishes---it learns to dance
in the dark.