Not one leaf left,
not one green thing.
Even the algal pools
beside the river
hinge toward brown.
The grass, brown.
The empty tomato vines,
brown. Even the bindweed
on the fence. Dead
and brittle and brown.
There is still a moon,
though, and it shines
when it isn’t in hiding.
Like tonight. The moon hasn’t yet risen
but I can look east
where it’s just as black
as the west, as the north and south,
and I know for certain
it’s not about prayer or hope,
it’s just a question of time.