Amid the green flaunting of the hours
Of peace, the living leaves have all become
The serpents and the flame-red flicker
Of the falling leaves their tongues.
All the trunks together form a fence-like weir
Within which the birds of souls, crying out,
Are trapped, the serpents’ tongues tumbling
Around them. But these are vipers lacking fangs,
So how is it the souls are poisoned and fall
Among the tongues, fall lost and ready to eat?
The chittering, competitive squirrels of words
That skitter along the branches of this weir
Serve as the knives. You will know the wood
Is poisoned when you see small shadows flash
Between the leaves, when birds fall bleeding
From the trees, fresh feathers grown in every gash.
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