Anathema

Anathema:

Vile, not dissimilar to sap, the way it crawls down the trees' trunk,
claiming insects in a suffocating rolling slumber.
Ancient mosquitos and antiquated bees still dance in thrumming, humming life.
Only now, they dance alone.
Only now, no one sees.

Standing at the kitchen window, I am suddenly floored by the memory of cottonwood drifting in a white, willowy multitude
How strange it seems now, with the leaves about to change
Like a momentarily misplaced plot, the cotton comes back to me now
& suddenly these yellowing leaves like the fragrant teeth of wolves make sense
We are, all of us, marching towards some great colorful conclusion, each moment of which is carried in the gust.

Change, the constant anathema.