last night.
Angry that the leaves still clung to the trees.
I watched the gusts
whip the upraised branches,
almost to the ground they emerged from,
it's impatience evident.
Today there is no brown earth beneath them,
only shades of gold.
The Alders stand,
branches like bare bones
swaying in the bitter breeze.
Soon the snows will ride in on the
cold East Wind,
bringing Winter down from the mountain.
And under Death's mantle
the remnants of summer will decay,
biding it's time,
to emerge once more as verdant tips on white branches,
swaying in the warm breath
of some tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment