Ten Thousand

It is dusk. The birds sweep low to the lake and then dive

up. The wind picks a few leaves off the ground

and turns them into wheels that roll

a little way and then collapse. There's nothing like branches

planted against the sky to remind you

of the feel of your feet on the earth, the way your hands

sometimes touch each other. All those memories,

you wouldn't want them over again, there's no point.

What's next, you ask yourself.

You ask it ten thousand times.