The whistle of the winds
and the scattered leaves gathering
into the air breeze of November
while the music of the cricket's song
lull her away into sleep.
For tomorrow's morning, uncertain.
Her soft silky hair danced on the waves
of the trees;
and its leaves singing with the wood nymphs —
the road is busy with the cars passing
and the pavement's slipping.
“The future is ours.”
She said —
with her chest heaved.
The small droplets of the rain
felt by her skin
as she closed her eyes,
the meaning of her vision
stuck through her.
While tomorrow's may be uncertain —
but the future is hers alone.
Roaring thunders woke her
into a moment of bliss.
The once starless sky
is now filled with the trinkets
of destiny's creation —
maybe in this night alone,
her wishes came true.
That the future is hers alone.
It is uncertain to think of our future. But, let us remind ourselves that the future is ours, alone.
