Wind hisses through the gauzing screens today;
Outside the trees are gossiping like drunks.
The sky is pale, both sad and bright at once,
The wind is whipping whitecaps out to play.
Leaves twist and let the wind have its own way
Releasing pressure on the trees’ old trunks,
Else maple oak and ash would just be stumps
And nothing here that’s green could ever stay.
And through the swaying leaves there flickers light
A shadow show of quickly changing golds
That challenges the eye to read its story
And if imagination can take flight
And if my comprehension may be bold
This could be hints of heaven in its glory.
