The leaves are as red as rosary.
I look as though you were
moving your hand in your hair
like a child absently at an abacus.
Some trees trace themselves above us,
drifting their arms into each other
with their fists blown open to touch.
We are at the margin of the forest
beside the sea. I think the days are
performed in full, meeting us where
we are, each agreeing with the next,
with you, with myself.
