George L Stein,
Indiana,
USA
It’s in the spontaneity of the wind when the tree, reluctant, bares it’s soul branches dance and leaves spin especially under extorts of fall
there are no physics to this gift no predictive elements to seize
the black frame glasses come tumbling off madam librarian awkwardly falls away
oh, how the wind heaves and blows against her claws and protestations
and animates what was so carefully tucked away on all those endless, quiet library days
hovering, a falcon hungers at the edge of the field
unspoken fear, comes the day when the poet has no more poems to say, the musician has no more songs to play
regardless of the vagaries of the wind
the tree breaks it silence, betrays it’s oath leaves, branches dance and damn the cold there were so many things we meant to say before we took the time to play
but we grew old and bare