Poetry

Scratching the rusted face 
of the dust storm-
to read the message. 
 
I have come very far, 
from the old stinks. 
It was not the escape. 
 
The unshaped sap, 
spills from the cut end- 
of treetops. I gather your cones. 
 
The fall begins abruptly. 
It was a landslide of 
leaf drop. Yellow and brown. 
 
I wait for the red. 
It reminds me of blood 
dripping from your poem.