Sweet Iona Sleeps

The wind is rising;
Screen door slams softly in back;
Pine needles dancing. 

 

Rain is expected;
The blue gray sky is pregnant;
Pine trees are bowing.

 

Hollow,  the wind sound
Rolls like soft thunder through trees
From the deep forest.

Shivering yellow--
Small leaves quiver in the bush;
Awakened by wind.

There is a silence
When the wind takes a deep breath;
Then leaves float gently.

Fluttered in the sky
Like a thousand shadowed birds:
A legion of leaves.

Crisp the brushing sound
As I step through the dry leaves.
They are still--for now.




As the wind rises
And the gray sky gets ready,
Sweet Iona sleeps.