sway

in the woods, trees are bending
narrow waters siphon tales
captured secrets, cities burned
some things cannot be reforged.
in the deep yellow of spring
the leaves are still falling
everything falls if given the chance
in the summer, you never really know
shallow blues all litter the street
swallowed news in the summer heat
and then, a year from now
dry reds and humming browns

but there is no foresight
just patterns in the dark.