when the reasons fade

that crinkled
brown paper bag
filled entire with the vacuum of melancholy
remains
just as wrinkled
as it ever was

those dry autumnal leaves
an ochre, an ogre
of might

that has been and the never was
a tumbleweed
in a dry, dry desert wind

and for want of a word
or two, or three
and an asking
and a silence

the council gathers
wise, it thinks
yet crumpled

and when the reasons fade
into space
ne’er an echo
sounds

those reasons, they have no answer
and they never will