Waiting On the Sun
You can almost hear the funeral procession
of leaves drifting lowly to earth, symphonic
children’s laughter bounces off crispy tips
rain completing its wash; lost
wet clothes saturated with a day
that will enter history.
Softness of winter foretelling a story
the one washed down storm drains
wrapped in black tied laundry bags,
suitable for the shedding skin of trees.
Swirling wind tosses the pile of dry bones
nature, a chef mixing a salad
water the dressing-- children the tongs;
lunging through piles as if waltzing
without mirrors.
Time, a rake with bony fingers
scraping delicately across
an earthen scalp. Longing
for new birth, sprout your wings
lullaby the past.
Lost within reason
singing without words
wrapping around
the rusty rake
propped lazily
across a skeleton fence.
If we face the east, can the west capture thoughts
a limp wristed boomerang never returning expectations?
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