nothing comes from nothing

the hard bloom

rain turns

these shingled roofs

to darknesses 

impenetrable as sables.

the taste of 

a memory,

its lapping seep and

sleek slide of color:

dirt brown,

pewter glimmer,

rust, blood red.

hid from the backbite moon,

the snap of sturdy close-knit branches,

the lethargic rustlings of their sodden leaves:

the stalk

of the beast

it breathes out

and in.

winter when no flower.