Prelude
The wind howls and combs
the dead tangles from the trees.
They fall and splinter with
a kind of certainty.
Expectation and collapse.
Fall and transformation.
The root remains.
The sycamores groan and sigh.
A high pitched squeal sings
out from the ash and maple.
The prelude to the green composition
of leaves.
This leave taking is a harmony
that writes itself.
posted by Anonymous @ 6:12 AM
1 comments
1 Comments:
Fascinating how we see things isn’t it? I love the beginning metaphor - the wind combing the dead tangles from the trees. I have written one that was backwards . . . where the tree was combing the wind out of the sky! I love the title and the setting of this, which is a step back from where most poets begin their musings about trees . . . not the translucent new leaves of April and of Spring, but a step backwards into early March - the prelude. Those of you reading - take note of the echo of the word “leaves” in the ending: “The prelude to the green composition of LEAVES./This LEAVE taking is a harmony that writes itself.” Beautifully crafted.
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