#59
Summer Winds Cry
The shadows of an old walnut tree
beckon with their dark fingers
while the heat of the sun
sings loudly on my back.
And summer winds cry with their hot breaths
about the rivers groggily waking,
wasting the mornings fresh bite to dream
of glaciers and melting snow.
Even in the heat the cold lingers.
Even when cloudless the sky storms.
Birds tell stories of fancy things;
of the filigree branches
laced over South America;
a world of green promise and hopeful eyes.
The trees feel their independence
while wildcats weave under their canopies.
And Europe speaks softly of the ancient times.
When man was young and full of awe.
His breath hung in the air as he stepped forward,
looking to the crisp skies hanging over mountains;
the grass was a lover to the barking dogs,
who watched fires burning in sparkling nights.
Africa, world of mystery!
The long, old winds tell tales of the expanses
where life is untamed and fierce.
Scents of a time older than mountains
slowly creep over the oceans.
Who was Africa then, the beautiful jewel,
when time began?
And the oceans wrestle with themselves,
sworn to hold the secrets they keep.