Oh, how whispering trees wind
Tales of eighty years so
Very in their own they seek to see.
Sunlight peeks peeringly from
Beneath the leaves up
From where these words shine brightly on the row.
I smell a tint of bitter fall
When the warmth hides quietly behind a cloud.
And orange crumples droop slowly until they are free to dance along the air
And so then fall beside me.
Rippling blades have eyes casting false judgments of the waves,
But they, too, bring memories to life
When webs wandered up to greet the cool,stiff death,
Not rippling lies of warmer times,
But passing comments of what snowy tundra may greet.
Here there is no promise of a merry meet,
No threat of withered spirits or bundled hearts.
In this puzzle piece, a planned place to procreate,
No darkness finds us deep in shivering.
~*~
I love that I can read a book in the park in November.
