Archive
10/26/10 - (1)
Breeze
As morbidity and doom set in, With dourness and cooling gloom glowering over the land, I breeze through the emptying trees And ask them what I might do to survive the season. They speak, between the drizzling raindrops, A sad litany of insignificant whispers That mean little — little, that is, Unless you believe that trees possess preternatural wisdom, A higher, divine intelligence That makes them privy to providential insights into afterlife No other beings can glean.
Why, in the first place, I even bothered to inquire, I haven't the inkling of an idea, Especially since I've always suspected the trees of treason And a lack of compassion for the rest of us, Have never trusted anything they might have to impart About surviving nature's tribulations. If you were breeze, how would you regard the trees?
10/26/10 - (1)
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