BREATH
The Damage To Sharon Hawley, Aspen Lover Already ill with heat I wound the aspens with sadness.
Old paths silent like trees grieve the loss of their greenery, veer into a ravine shaped by wind and the whims of men. I touch opal barks, their gentle swaying moves me to listen to sap ascending higher realms turning into a gold dance to the rhythm of fall.
Wild wind like furies begins to howler, initiates a mournful singing as night rises from a naked horizon. I hide behind windows, fasten the shutters, pray for the resurrection of all dying trees.
© liveencounters.net POETRY & WRITING March 2024 Celebrating 14th Anniversary
