YET

The clouds come down at night like dreams.
They take new names — fog, mist,
dew — interlacing
vaporous imaginal tendrils with as yet undeciduated
leaves.
The breeze that would
give voice to trees
in a drier moment spurs
a patter of fresh
awakening in leaf matter
on the floor.

Who awakens knows
now from fallen
dreams of oceanic sadness — while
fallen water washes itself away,
somehow not salty in the forest.

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