Engines of Our Spaceship

I take a late-night walk through the park, where Trees are hanging in a frail parliament.  They lean in for a late-night session Their photocopied leaves are trembling  At the thought of autumn alopecia. I try to imagine the speed of tree-thoughts. How long do they take to penetrate? And are they articulated only  By green or gradients of red and brown?  I can’t tell, in the amnesia of moonlight. A shopping bag is snagged by brittle hands  And held up, beseechingly to the stars That glaze the hardened September sky.