Crisped wind brushes through my tresses
and a hint of ice passed my skin.
The sun-kissed ceiling painted a faint yellow blanket
over the harmonious foliage.
In the jet black silence I can hear them-
the bitter leaves chattering back and forth.
But as the first pinch of light pours out,
the playful bushes are awake
And the singing, green giants hum a melody.
The rural path is not so lonesome,
for the perfumed, green pillows are comforting
while the golden fingertips guide the way.
May 2013 Portland