Picasso

Leaves fall from branches
which over time grow
outwards like their roots,
until the willows trace
their primal shapes,
and all its summer fruits
mimic what the boughs
stencil on the ground below.
So forests twist and fall
in canopies, the trellis of the sun
spirographed with orange lines,
its umbrellas underneath the trees;
shadows that the light has sown
around the branches’ form,
which, filled with rain
from last night’s storm,
glisten in the dawn like cups,
reflecting back a chopped-up
day, divided on the lawn.

Torrey Pines, La Jolla
Thanksgiving, November 26th, 2015