The silver underleaves of an autumn olive
muttered in Russian, or an unknown tongue;
their moonlit, glittery palaver sprung
from shady root (Armenian cave).
The moon was hidden in a cloud. He watched
the dancing glossolalia fade, as when a season
spirals into frozen glass, and someone
skates across the leaves' graveyard - detached,
heedless. Soon glass will melt
into the rippling stream (a metamorphosis
of mountain springs) and Everyman knows this:
those leaves will quiver in Orion's belt.
Time for another 2-finger exercise for Time Flowers: