The homey axioms, homeless in age; happy endings with nowhere to return.
Gone with memories too shaken to grip the tree – peaches in a tempest.
If they could flow like water they would stupidly run all the way to the ocean,
become lost in its vast moving structure.
The virtue of age?
In an age when youth consumes virtue; where they live in large houses,
heavily laden with utensils and alarms.
Sunlight turns the hillside green and goldenrod.
We curl like leaves in that autumn dawn,
take it as a sign of promise.