The homey axioms are happy endings going nowhere.
Too shaken to grip the tree,
they are peaches in a tempest.
If they could flow like water
they would stupidly run all the way to the ocean.
The virtue of age?
In an age when youth consumes virtue,
lives in large houses
heavily laden with utensils and alarms,
age is the final virtue on the path to hell.
Then sunlight turns the hillside green and goldenrod.
We curl like leaves in that autumn dawn,
take it as a sign of promise.