The yellow bark, the changing tilt of the Sun

The yellow bark, the changing tilt of the Sun
as winter approaches. I seem to remember
the color of the scarves and coats, the time
that's kept by clocks and watches. Underneath

the heavens wander beings dazzled by light
and dark, encumbered with symbols, mystified
by myth and brand. The syllables we utter
have hypnotized us so, the modern stanza,

the trope and device of a dark wood. The Sun
bleeds purple hues, the iris and the lily
without design. I am the long calendar

of an ancient people, the pattern of moons
and starry sky. She changes in the mellow
dawn into a tree that I have not seen.