This poem came from a late-night study session and an early class with a window. I wish I was kidding when I say it got so bad I was drawing syntactic trees that looked like the trees outside.
The orange leaves no longer stand
as a fixed member of the tree,
no longer grasped by the green fist of spring,
their golden heads find movement.
I see phrases stacked atop phrases and branching,
the layers of barred tree bark still thickening.
And every leaf a fallen word—
an agent here,
a sister there.