I know some small things:
the first frost sweetens
the second kills.

In my secret world, light
shines like dandelions
gone to seed in a moonscape
and a single tree
draws me to the ferny
underbelly of woods.

As birds wing in old departures
I’m ambushed by petals,
leaf mold, earth crust
and a shock of sky.

In a future that resembles now
I learn to pat death
like a dog, it's growing
so familiar. When I pick flowers
they root in my palm, tendrils
lace through fingers.