Sometimes she is so tired
she can feel the trees grow.
The slow wind on the bark
draws infinite sighs.

Her breath is elongated along
the wood's facade from morning
until night.  She looks toward the
future with her eyes forever
drawn, wistful and cased with
time's awful drudge.

It is not about the wind she
thinks, but the weary sound of
silence until you return.

The circadian rhythm of life
will resume after the war.
Along the hours granted
in your reunion, she will move
with cellular efficiency.  

Time will beat soon,
please God,
in sinus predictability .



Caroline Shank