Turning.

Beyond the library, the trees are
turning. They swing their branches,
they poke their tops
at the very bottom
of forever.

They were like kindling.
They were like kids
again. Rekindling,
how they had grown
into the ancient pillars
of cyclical stillness.

They dropped their dead
children on the playground
amongst the others who scurried
their fleshy feet, rustling
open books, those inked tombstones
of the trees, and it is all
happening again.

The trees and their fallen
angels in a wind gust of discord-
ant babies about the asphalt
they hopscotch--a game
of chalk dust, of sawdust,
those shaved pencils, turning
the details of dust.

The tolling bells make them
reconvene in muted tones
in the library. There they gather
the lessons, the turned pages,
the skimmed rings of trees
that built their desks.

These children passing
their notes, their history.
They are slowly weathering
pages, turning, into tomorrow's
scholars, the trees.

Inside the library, the children,
they swing their feet,
they poke their toes
beneath where the tables are
turning, but just above
forever, their pages are

Turning.

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