Trees in November

The year is dying like everyone else.
We drive home in the dark
and idle for the end
of the story on the radio,
a star overhead.

The moon is back like always.

We see our children
before they see us,
and love them for
whatever they’re doing,

then hurry them
to everything and everyone
waiting.

It’s breezy out.
At the funeral are candles,
lights pointed at photos.
The flesh uninhabited,
sacred trash.

And each other,
our children,
the newest in arms.

Trees looking
through the window
at the flowers.

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