and there was 2pm, first thanksgiving

the leaves
in the cranny by the loading dock
at the back of the warehouse
where freight sometimes rolls in across
semi trailer decks
are clenched like old fists
flit fast as sparrows in the fitful gust
winds gentle folded by brick walls
into cyclones, hurricanes in scale to the fish-eyed puddle
they brood, they hover over.

I say sometimes,
in the autumn, if not in other seasons,
to myself to bide--
after gales the air hangs free
what fists in crannies clung
no longer are alive when one's breathing shallows
things known as true vie with little else
in dry time and cold,
and yet clench afternoons by truck-fulls
and shake and shake their trust
to scale--to scale like needle heads
on which to shake.

so? dignity should
empty trees, stand naked through the snows
believe or not believe
earth's command subtle as sap
"make green" and
cunning creep, flying fly
fruit bear within it seed

know down to your bones
to cleave like flesh.
or should I say instead
forsake thy time and time and time?
for what faces you, scale to scale
help fold into
help