tremor in the walnut grove,
stand of near emptiness where I once stood,
unto a sorrow as the moths
belong now to these branches, the smoke
and burn of twilight,
the dreamers aroused,
unbound from their nest, wings unfurling walnut
tree-patterns, adult colors —
bronze and gray of decay, although
they are newly born.
This is the why and the way
of how I love them: savoring the end-
of-summer’s diminishing hours, unafraid
of the coming dark, enthralled by the applause
of bodies caught like hatchets
in the bark.