Maybe it was the crisp gusts from the East
that spoke silence to him,
and told him to turn away.
Maybe it was the golden whorls of leaves at his feet,
that whispered memories to him,
and persuaded him to change.
Maybe it was the tender wisps of his hair against his face,
that calmed his regrets,
and made it certain that he should go.
Maybe it was the barren trees that made his gray eyes weep,
and this made it so.

Maybe it was the  frail oak branches, the frigid lullabies he longed for as a child,
the hues of gold and brazen horizon of his youth,
that cradled his senses with arms of opportunity and promises of ripe dreams,
that showed him his fate rested in the East.
And so I’ve been told, he then parted with his inner defeat.

*June 2012