Jesus is in the yogurt, God is in the tree

Last night, or was it afternoon, I sat on my roof and stared over at a tree loosing its leaves in yellow fire glory. Early this summer, when i spent nights reveling in the magical dewy firefly air with trapped-as-teenage company, old witch docors in youthful bodies, and we blew smoke at the moon, this boy and i talked about the moment now occuring.

The tree in question is fairly miraculous, like Jesus in moldy yogurt but better. Through its leaves at sunset shine luscious peach rays of Phoebus' chariot coming to rest, ambrosia fed to his wet tired horses. A gap in its leaves too perfect to be natural spelled out a curvy G, a lopsided uneven O, and a top-squished D, vaguely odd looking, and from one spot against the side of the blue chipped-paint house, we would look up and squint our eyes and be awed by GOD in the godtree. I remember we talked our first night seeing it about what we would do come fall, and we figured such a tradgedy did not bear consideration, as obviously summer would halt and last in its paused state forever.

Well, now this boy and i stopped talking. Now i consider it. Now i mourn. Now i rest my chin on the window sill at sunset, too cold-shy to go out in the wind, and watch the leaves fall on the other side of the glass with the sun refracted in my eyes.

Fall is the death of me.

yellow fire glory sunlight and leaves
shine like the seven stars in the hand
of the man who talks of the end of
all things the godtree has
its very own
moldy-yogurt-jesus
fan club
now.