Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Winter

Poem by Richard Pauloo


Winter
Wherein lies the texture of the hillside?
What makes great branches break and decay
And sways them through seasons back into the ground?
What sound do leaves make when they die?
They rupture and fall
Like any one of us
We are deciduous
Destined to dance a few cycles of season
Have you stood on the hillside long enough
To hear leaves breathing?
If you are patient enough to listen
You will hear them whisper about their mortality.
When with tremendous sighs
Their veins
Rupture and fall into the hillside
It is nothing to cry about
It is only the winter

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