Promise
The November air is chill.
Shredded, racing clouds
Look down upon
Half-naked trees below.
Brown, yellow, red,
The leaves are torn
From Mother Tree’s grasp
And fall panicked,
Dizzy, to huddle on
The cold, gray walk.
Finally, raked into piles,
Their fate is sealed,
The bonfire lit.
Red-gold sparkles
Fly swirling upward
In a smoky cloud,
To flicker out
In the night sky,
Leaving behind them
Only ashes of memories
But Mother Tree,
Bending in the wind, silent,
Keeps her secret.
Waiting out the long
Gestation time of winter,
Pregnant already with
The green and tender
Babes of spring.
Awaiting patiently
The promise of rebirth.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
