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?