September Sunrise Service

If you could only hear what the trees are saying...

I stand on the platform of a Friday morning,
looking across the way at the trees, cousins
to my bones, my expressway of nerves.

A calm soft Friday morning where pastor
Apollo raises the sun like a communion 
wafer among his congregation of trees.

The rest of us heathens ignore this
daily solar miracle ritual in favor of
Facebook, IG or last nights sports
scores steaming their black mirrors,
as the trees weep dry yellow tears 
in September’s stillness, grieving
summer’s end. 

As Autumn’s car
turns the corner 
		who knows 
what disasters our
handlers will portend? 
			Who knows
what dirty deeds our planners
pretend weren’t planned? 

One move,
then another. 
Pitting sister against brother, moving 
their pieces across Life’s checkerboard, 
while taking as many of ours as possible—a game
created by Marx (not the toy manufacturer!).

The trees grieve in September’s stillness, 
leafing dry yellow tears at summer’s end.