Gusts of wind snatch at the branches

that encase me in the courtyard.

Rows of neat green foliage

tossed on a whim,

transformed,

as a storm begins.

The old willow widow,

heavy with tangled hair,

puffs out in a low sigh.

The breath out, at times so tranquil,

so gracious, a blissful flow,

can be, you know?, the final effort

of a long laborious breath,

tiresome and over-stayed.

Chaos in movement

against a pallid grey.

Winter, a guest lingering in the way.

But there is some beauty in a drone,

a note as solid as in stone.

Too many things seem to complicate in detail,

except not the intricacies in between

two shades of grey.

Of course now,

winter will not forever stay!.

If you placed before me now

a line of bright sunflowers,

their solid directness

might seem rude,

or at least

spoiling of the subtle,

far from crude

whisperings of skeleton branches

forming friendships with the

criers of a storm:

the wind forlorn.

© Sara Smerdon