Long golden tongues --
The wind chides them,
but they are reluctant to lift
from the grass's green palette.
Remembering their tree-born
freedom of articulation,
they heave and shudder gently --
a slight yielding to the coaxing breeze.
Tongues sigh in unison.
A chorus of soft murmurings
muted by dew.
A week passes, and the tongues
become dusky curls
whirling giddily with any breeze
that happens by.
Like nubile girls,
they tempt the wind,
lifting their skirts
then scattering to the safety
of a cloistered heap.
Their laughter rasps sharply
as they play at hide and seek.
A snowfall, heavy and enduring
stills the dancing of the tongues
to demure quiescence.
They darken,
elongate once again.
The syllables of their hushed
conversations slur.
Numbed by cold,
stunned by winter,
the tongues melt into sleep.
There will be no awakening.
No comments:
Post a Comment