II. Layers

This is still a poem in progress, but I am posting it so that it is available for comment.

II.        Layers

A breeze: the undertaker of

unnumbered long-dead leaves;

whose nudge is strong enough

to tear the carapaces clattering

to ground.  Dark shards are left,

like offerings, impaled on Taschist

spikes of newly naked black.

Now, scrawls remain where

smears of green once grew. 

And still they drop –

though many wait and hang,

corroding on rust-rotted trees.

The fallen jumble round the trunks

and lie, like childhood’s jigsaw,

all overlaps, no fitting piece.

Until the season’s breath

slime-softens what had seemed

distinct. 

The sky, dragged down

through branches,

opens earth.