Codas-July 17, 2010

Pine branches stirring
almost imperceptibly
with whispers of breeze.

Ends of circles are
lost in the beginnings of
things just now starting.

Wind in the treetops
speaks quietly to me with
tears for things long gone.

Ink black sky alive
with snakes of yellow lightening
and torrents of rain.

The longer I live,
the more my mother's words are
right, "Never should have...."

Poor old thing, scratching
at fleas that aren't there, pissing
on things not marked yet.

The fog seems somehow
dry - a soft blanket on the
scattering of leaves.

The yard has grown thick,
forested with tall weeds of
late summer's monsoon.

Warm rains are bringing
the bright winds of fall as wet
leaves sway forcefully.

The dense green holds on
to all the moisture there has been,
and looks up for more.