The men with their leaf-blowers
come to clear the lawns: dry
needles of pine, all the fallen
leaves that flourished in summer.

Now the moon appears, ornament
of beaten silver, gleaming
thumbprint on a darkening sheet.
And the arms of trees reach

in their own stripped silence
toward what you yearn for: to be
gathered in again, your fragments
cradled by what sees you.

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