The wind, sweet breath, moves through the stand of trees.
A sighing music dances on the breeze,
and glances over leaf, drifts soft caress.
A fleeting shadow through unconcsciousness.

This ever-present zephyr twists in flight,
to cast its unseen eye on one who might
be plucked from bough and drawn into its thrall.
Its fate but to decay upon its fall.

Then straight, decision made, here is the one.
The chosen, name called out with silent tongue,
must join the lifeless throng on forest floor,
Bathe in the sunlit canopy no more.

Through each branch this constant whispering guide
by capricious temper will still abide.
Cruel impatience, swift striking avarice,
then sweet mercy in its poisoned chalice.

Spring’s bright growth or autumn’s russet tone,
where is reason for which leaf is cast alone
into the void? Its brothers left to grieve
until it is their chosen time to leave.