On Poe's swing a moment recalled.

On the swirl
of a night chill
the pendulum
of time swings
while echoes travel
tick tock down
the auditory canal
as a reminder.
In the stutter, words
fall like autumn,
on the forest floor, thoughts
with pick and shovel
look for buried memories
where a grave lies unmarked
the trees above sway and whisper.
They know.