The tree rises in a white sky of a memory, stripped of its leaves, through the kitchen’s vantage going back to several autumns of old memories, a point of view that looked an oncoming street.
The leaves lie in state in a mishmash of rain on the roof with many days of rain accumulated for the crows to explore and the sun to render a golden painting of a vanishing glory of rising.
We have to take the aid of poetry for memory with the leaves lost to the sky’s white wilderness. The trees make bland statements as if in dance. Meanings are merely extrapolated from memory.
Memories arise on words falling from trees. They fill our kitchens with nice vapors like rising suns sending down shafts of memory through the half-closed kitchen exhaust hole.