Bricks and Beliefs

Poetry: occasionally

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Syntax in the Fall

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. 

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