Whispers
A gentle rustle in the breeze
Carried some whispers from the trees:
To us has come a falling out.
Our fine leaves are divorcing us.
Swept away by the siren wind -
To dance and twirl colorfully -
Until wind dumps them, shriveled crones.
We hear their whispered grunts and groans
But our bare limbs they cannot reach
Wrinkled they writhe around our feet.
We shiver with whispered silence,
At best we offer sappy tears,
When Winter shrouds their final rest.
Copyright © David Drowley | Year Posted 2021
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