Dry Leaves

As I walked past a forest of trees,
I could tell from the rustling of leaves,
A wild wind was gracing their tops,
Like a river rushing it’s banks in careful seams.
Ghostly gusts cutting through twisted branches,
Touching tender leaves in violent duty.
And they, like a fearful child, held firm
By their shoots, the swaying shoots by the trunk,
The trunk embraced, by the mother herself.
Like waves on a shallow beach they sound.
And in the calmness in between – shooting down,
Are dry leaves falling in fame – twisting,
In a slow floating rain from green clouds,
A flower, once a while, would feather down.
On me, they shower – nimble touches
Of mother earth.