The Number of Words I Speak

We stand beside the mottled white-gray tree bark admiring the trunk, the
complexion, the shade of that broad, strong tree. Is it always autumn in the mind,
even in mid-spring replete with butterflies that flick away some sadness. Our speech
is blotted gently by long vowel sounds of the mower. When in love one needs a spare
vocabulary. Apostasy’s unlikely given grounding in a firm floor of belief. We wend
our way toward stasis. The pure, stable form that lifts above cliché of dance I hear
more than I step. Instead I shoulder the thin breeze that nearly colors tips of my
fingers as I touch the stately tree. How many sounds are required to shelter or
accompany us here? We dovetail in insisting on coming leaves, as windows once
removed from former and forthcoming seeds.