Leaves cling, do not go gently, but go just
The same. The signal is yellow; the alive
Are always downcast before being cast down.
Look! The green team winning all summer
Is starting to lose badly, going bald in
The stunning radiation. New vine tendrils
Watch from a distance, still wet, uncommitted,
Literally on the fence. Some mock. Like Jesus
Or not, you must brace yourself, whisper to
Your God, your God (and your mother). Hold tight
To the wood, but nothing works. Nothing ever has.
Poem by Santi Tafarella, 2011
See this poem as a Wordle here.