The tree stands bare.
The wills of a thousand leaves
Fasten none; all dance
At the whims of breezes.
Unfettered foliage
Flutters windward,
Eddies in devil-spins,
Then settles earthward.
The myrtle shades none,
Nor the laurel.
Vanes spinning
Become compasses.
Daughters of memory,
Grace the air with a tremor:
Summon these shambles
Into a forgotten shape.
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1 comment:
Ok, I'll try this again.
Very nice piece, Sir Isaac. The ante has been upped, Kindlings!
Where did the "forgotten shapes" come from - I like the imageless image.
rufus
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