NOW | Every New Moon

summer is early

hustling winds

scuffle fast clouds into

small pieces

unwelcome and brown with smoke and fear

they wrestle the trees

for their limbs

all the pale grey gums

(sealed black since july)

have suddenly shed

their skins

to stand, naked and gleaming within

the fragments

of their former selves

i am

losing my grip

on this year, this

scorched november

soft-skinned and bare legged

has run away (or was,

perhaps, blown)

i am

ambling in its wake

a dry-mouthed wanderer

wondering what

to bring with me, as I prepare

to start over

again