In an orange sky, an orange sun

is a pear falling from a tree.

I hope death

will come so easily.  

Do trees feel pain

when they die,

or gazing at the sky, do they

give up without a sigh? 

Wise men say time is relative.

It means nothing to the trees,

to the sun and the stars.

But it means a lot to me.  

December, like a bellows,

blows storm clouds

toward an icicle moon,

and what of May or June?

They’ve departed far too soon.