This tree never grew as tall as it should have yet tirelessly tells each season.
It seems it is dressing or rather, undressing for winter.
Brusque blue breeze runs its touch over tresses
Limbs once exuberant, lathered in gold
Have no where to hide; they brace for the cold
Dreaming of springtime and pretty new dresses
Solemn and soulful, a gleaned-garden dirge
Murmurs in echoes where summer’s song swelled
And children grew limber while their mothers held
To mute moments melting on Time’s soundless surge
The wind is a wanderer; a tired troubadour
Searching for music in each forlorn tree
Where is the sighing leaf-song melody?
Its notes snuffed and scattered on earth’s umber floor
Masterpiece moments amalgamate; merge
Amorphic matrix of laughter and tears
Falling in half-breaths to hours then years
Shaping a life as its patterns converge
© Janet Martin