Pitter-patter of bottlebrush tails
snap fast in fallen leaves 
that clatter and clang
with dashed-hope brothers, then
grow silent a moment to brighten
demon’s deepest dark spaces
in places blocked from any sunlight
trickle, ripple, stream, and glow.
See the cattails by the marsh clearing
wave and bend, almost break yet hold,
bold strength in stalk given by good roots. 
Relentless groaning, shaking,
crawling and creeping and shrieking
falters not the sun-stretched —
only burdens for a fraction of eternity
until hell-bornes descend again
underneath the dying leaves
to perform in decay eau de parfum.