when the leaves dried and
turned in on themselves.
The sea stays the same
standing on the shore
it is seasonless.
But then turn and see
the leafless trees scratch
complicated shapes
on an otherwise
soft sky
their upturned hands
damning and blameless.
As if they were
always this empty
as though their wigs
were a joke
in the spring.
We walked along the iron bones
of a road that wanted to grow
to the size of the horizon
did we look back
and see the trees whipped clean?
Is that why we’re abbreviated
and the sea is complete?
