Almanac
  Michael Smith

A rare summer wind will
scatter branches.

As I pick each one up
I will name it:

pine, maple, apricot, birch,
apple, aspen, Russian olive.

Your list may be longer.
I will ask, unaware

you flicked
your hearing off again,

again the words
leaping from my mouth

adding up to nothing,
nada, zip, zilch,

math’s empty set,
my lips brackets

bracketing emptiness.
Even zero is more.

I will wonder
if the silence you will hear

is as empty
as the gap

between a star’s collapse
and when we see the colored light.