Trees sway like drunks
in a sudden gust of wind—
the clacking of their branches.
The whole hillside
is in motion around me,
standing here with my head cold
almost gone.
How marvelous it is
just to breathe.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
Doing my Sunday catch-up I find a week’s worth of superb poems. Some head-cold that was!
Thanks. I think today’s one about burning the tissues should be the last. Which means the series-within-a-series ends on sort of a sententious note. Oh well.