Above me, the trees are towering,
tangled stems and branches,
still silhouettes guarding the
infinite sky, hiding it beyond
their last living foliage,
tunneling the universe around me,

their
thatched moon shadows lie
unmoving, creating craters
of light and dark and darkest dark
along the bended street.

I have lied to myself.
These nights are immense,
and I am in awe of the trees.

No secrecy can spare me
the minutiae of my walking,
or nights like this spent
making silent love on
a bare mattress on my floor
when I was a younger man.

Nights like this make
the hushed dribble
of a creek not far from me,
though unseen in the dark,
seem a clamorous torrent.

I am in awe of the trees,
and the sky, and the creek
most of all.