their whispers
are like
spells

Reached over, grabbed my phone
to read
He had died
not having seen her--
His daughter
with her eyes black like his
Night in hair and features
He could never deny
Their voices
both carved
from ballad and timbre of oak

Ireland
hung
harps
in the beauty
between them

They bear the brunt of the heat,
Yet in the scorching sun
Without the respite of a shed,
They don’t complain
But protect what lie below them,
The leaves far down,
The creatures on the ground,
Quietly waiting for the rain!
And when it pours,
They dance in joy
As they get the first drops,
Forgetting all sadness of life!
Can’t we be like them?
I mean the leaves atop the trees
With nothing on their head
Mutely bearing the sun’s wrath
Dancing through all pain
Protecting whatever is down below
Cheerily waiting for rain!