Wednesday, February 9, 2011

past presence

Do you even hear the wind
as it rushes o'er your valleys?
Stop to see the remnant hissing
of the leaves which mourn its pass?

Do you ever miss the rainstorms,
miss the nourishment they'd replenish?
Stop to ponder cool sensations
as your skin was gently kissed?

Prior shoulders robust and grand
now thin and wrinkled, parched by heat.
Flesh now dangles in delicate feature
from cold hands and blithe fingers.

Squalor of a barren prairie,
stripped to bare skin without water.
Worn to bone in delicate feature,
fragile; unforgiving still.

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