we wrote no evergreen words
we dismantled the trees
broke the birds
bagged the breeze
split the godhead in thirds
for the sneeze
offered blessings for the spirit
you can keep it, but do nothing with it
we are writing deciduous trees
we are falling in autumn
to broken memories
here in the quiet stage of blank page
embrace the phase of inevitable old age
you will forget that you built every cage
we wrote no poetry for the children
we waited for broken hearts to kill them
the dreams that they had turned bad or sad
and when they became adults we billed them