tremor.
black fingers extend
from hands broken
at the end of dark arms,
limbs, crowded by fallen
leaves, unattached, doomed
to flopping along
as the wind sings, threshing
the empty floors.
again.
beat black fingers
from broken hands
against the dark
limbs outstretched onto
the pale mists sheathing
silent moonrays.
Once more.
faintly
grow into the sod, leaving
nothing behind, only
an almost inaudible whisper
of rhythms from alien lands
where mushrooms grow taller,
and woodpeckers drum
the maple trees in a wind-blown symphony.
