They look black against night sky,
diffused gray light behind.
Who would guess that day’s
blinding blue would make them appear
to be on fire?
In crimson and orange/gold
burning.
What other tricks
does nature play?
Is selfless love an illusion, with its:
“I’ve given my life and
you’ll never know…”
Mothers do that
secretly at sundown—
they hope the jig is never up.
I once read of a drowning
woman who stood erect in water
and held her child aloft
to breathe and live.
I send checks,
then listen to autumn wind
blowing itself through night
trees whispering: “Say
what’s true. Speak
who you are.”
“Or else,” falling leaves
fear aloud, “the pretense will
live on in sky and fermenting soil,
and ignorant hearts who merely
hope for the best.”
Their dying sacrifice, my truth.