My thoughts are like a wreath
of rising smoke,
an incessant patter
of the chattering rain.
Ascending slowly, they snare me
into their steely grip
choke my throat steady
with a hand of silk
until
I can feel, and breathe
no more.

Faint rustle of the breeze

dead leaves, twigs blow down

Is it only I in the dark of the night

or do other souls too move about?

Hearken, attentive O comrade

here a shadow and there a glint

the beings that dwell in a land not far, slip out a subtle, gentle hint.

Who on this stormy night is back

door of a home long deserted swings,

what business unfinished they seek

whose laughter rings loud in the wind?