These silent elms make paper trails of silver
moon; my haunted heart makes haste of all these
wasted things and more. Ask the acorn how
she’s grown. Ask the silent elms to pilfer
the silver moon’s glow, a tao of trees.
Ask, and paper trails out like quiet kites,
a sky of indigo paper, trails of hope; and now
the silent elms read the slivered moon her last rites.
A san san (a new-to-me form) prompted by NaPoWriMo, day 14.