[Spoken] Three seasons Three weeks The count of three, by the rest, by the splitting open of spring leaves, Slices of life sandwiched between lances of sprays of branches Wondering at where the splits lie, following their gnarled chances Three Three weeks Three hours Three places I can sit, following the lines of the forest, the sky through it A chaos a bramble reaching, tracing the light past bark, growing and still ink Waving and unglowing the stars and the clouds fill the spaces, the spaces between the leaves Three, Three hours Just three seconds and I leave The sketch not completed, the light always fleeting, three more times before I even begin seeing the tip of my pen holding and shaking with drawing for next year, anticipating three more But drying as I leave [end]
