Throngs

Bare arms waving, fingers extending,
Garments of rainbow tattered and blown,
Gnarly, knuckled, entangled, yet graceful,
A thicket of bramble, a coterie of crones,
Stray.

Pleading to grey sky for garments of green,
Endless fingers sinew and lattice the heavens,
Like pilgrims throng the path to a shrine,
Airily, this company coiffed in lichens,
Sway.


As their numbers extend in the failing light,
Endless frames with crackled skin of bark,
Seem to demur to the autumnal summons,
Bowing and blending in the shadowless dark,
Pray.