Are you trying to **** me with a windfall limb? Help me fly a kite? Push me down a city block even if I donβt want to go that way? Will you blow my love to me? Blow them away? But thanks for making so much kindling available.
I often mistake those pin oak leaves That you push across the road, Now East, now West, For skittering rodents, Cute ones, terrified of being run over, Like toads in a Spring rain. Brown brittle leaves, done growing but still running.
You donβt care, you have no imagination. Yet you can remove, by mindless bluster, The common - all too common sorrow From us thoughtful human fools If we dare to face you, Spread our quiescent wings, And let go.