There must be a confident moon, or the leaves won’t begin to glow.
A clear night, or the last fire in their veins will remain diminished.
The scattered stars that shine past the moon
will begin the conversation
between silver poplar and light.
The white stems will move like letters, trembling.
Take a bit of your precious time.
This will not require headphones or batteries.
Without pressing a play button …
the music will come singing from the ground.
The distant suns will answer in Morse code, assembling.
A miracle like everything else you are caught up in.
A faulty dance with the rake, lank and unsteady partner.
Taken lightly, or not, the leaves will give scruffy applause …
beg you to fall down and gather them in your arms, too.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Give up every dream you ever had.
Trust this silly, weary-less world.