Must move, running too hard,
driving among the insane traffic,
is just wrong,
So...I will walk among the almost naked trees
and those leaves,
most of which are dried and crumble, under
my clumsy feet, pick them up by the bunches,
in the hope that some sense will land on me
as I toss them into the air, and stand under
their falling, with my arms and hands wide open,
catching them at random, fragile twisted has-beens of
a three season display, the ones I catch having
meaning while the others are dead and not just
to me, for they will fertilize the new growth in Spring,
But let me look at my leaves discover what they bring,
I am struck in wonder
I am in a state of awe,
I begin to laugh and guffaw,
Maybe this is how I write poetry,
throwing words around like dead leaves,
as I wander among naked resting trees,
and the ones I miss this time will
be my fertilizer in the Spring,
and the ones that land and leave
my hands, are submitted into,
The Fray, the battle,
The Day, and rattle,
a sound to warn me
of danger, if I don't play
by                                  by
writing.             ­    loving
each                             all
day.                      His way .



©DWE112013