Scratching the rusted face
of the dust storm―
to read the message.

I have come very far,
from the old stinks.
It was not the escape.

The unshaped sap,
spills from the cut end―
of treetops. I gather your cones.

The fall begins abruptly.
It was a landslide of
leaf drop. Yellow and brown.

I wait for the red.
It reminds me of blood
dripping from your poem.