Between Too Many and Too Few

When I find myself lost in a forest of thoughts,
when I am anything but isolated from my mind
no matter how hard I try to disengage, I question
the true intentions of summer, that seductive
opaqueness of green piled limb to limb, tree to tree
in the attic of the canopy, that prevents me from
seeing clear through to the beyond. It’s always
the same—nothing prophetic about that—when
there seem few enough leaves to count, yet the
sum of them still lies beyond the grasp. Then—
as if mere contemplation can alter perceptions—
I find it’s all suddenly gone an instant after
the tenuous equilibrium between too many and
too few, when I sense I can see, but actually can’t.