the wind was dissecting
the twigs to the leaves
the wind and the tree were not
aware of each other
or maybe they were
more aware than i am
standing there under
the ribs of the clouds
they were whispering about
time
and a girl
who rushed by, not knowing that time is end-
less; and a man,
whose wrinkles they were trying to smooth with some hope; and a minute that lasts for-
ever and stops only once, when there’s
a need to reset the clock for a new countdown.
all they were talking about was simplicity, of not waiting for spring to come
but just knowing it will.