Winter Park Sunset

WINTER PARK SUNSET In evening breeze the leaves are gently stirred and one can hear them, if one listens long, arustling out a tune that may be heard of waking dreams about to join the song. There's dying in the light of firey red gray fingers clutch and pull the sun away and silent grow the trees, as mass is said amourning what will turn to yesterday. The emptiness so vibrant--it's the sign for night winds coming from an evening glow they're loosed from catacombs across the line that seperates life from all we don't know. Then sleep is peaceful to the summer wind like blessing from the fingers of a friend. © ron wilson aka veebdosa the doylestown poet