Rustling

Scattered memories
of waders and birds of prey
with different views
of above and below.

I forget about seasons
as I am surrounded
by decaying books
and cups of tea

but they say the sweetness
of newly cut grass
is actually the scent of death
-and none of us are far behind.

I don’t know
what kind of tree I’d be
shedding needles or leaves,
but I know I’d rustle.