Storm's a'brewin'!
That's all I can surmise.
Wind's a'whistlin',
whole-howlin' tree-ring eyes.
Them eyes been a'talkin'
and
teethin' by the meadow.
Called for his past,
he has no memories of this meadow.
Winters have passed,
snow bears no meaning. Cold and wet wood– Swell.
Branchless, aging,
won't you watch them wood-grain curves? Just feel him.
He's got them rings
in his eyes, in his sad-stump eyes. Woe-brown.
Taking it easy. Taking it easy, just as easy as you're fitting to go.
O' count the rings in his eyes and listen–
listen to beats:
*Storms from the west are making my joints sore.
Crows outside my window assure me that Winter is dead.
These big-skies continue to impress me.
Crows outside my window caw at me that Winter is dead.
Water does go a'tricklin' from the source.*
Birds do fly north in spring
and
soon summer storms will come.
Cloud-anvils hang heavy,
lightning will come.
Breathing stills, so heavy–
More trees will come.