The leaves debate the wind.
We all know who will win.
There is no sound in the fall.
Whatever we might do here
amounts to little more than their rustling,
perhaps not even that.
Scratch of the branch
at the window. And then
it is silent.
October 9, 2016 by Rosemerry
The leaves debate the wind.
We all know who will win.
There is no sound in the fall.
Whatever we might do here
amounts to little more than their rustling,
perhaps not even that.
Scratch of the branch
at the window. And then
it is silent.
Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged autumn, poem, poetry, transience, wind | 1 Comment
Reminds me of that scene in Wuthering Heights, when Cathy’s ghost taps on the window.