Before the sleepy’s rubbed and wiped away
At the start of day in early May, leaves kick their feet
do a manic jig
Fast as the boys jitter bugging
when they returned from war
They tell through dance,
communicate the language of the trees
Leaves look like fingers too, another way
through the panes with sleepy eyes
I am deaf, they are signing
mysteries only trees can know
That with the winds comes a shakedown
It is the way of howling air, blustering power
and might, a change
Words that say what oaks, they know
the bending delivers strength
The branches carry messages for me
braille, for me, the blind one
The one who can not see
Planted in the eye of storm, in the raging winds
That the dusty blows away
Hitches a ride on the tailwinds in the sky
Before the plans are made and prayers are eeked
And worry settles in the folds
At the outset of new day
Grace is carried, dropped and settles
On the house, in which I live
And all that’s left for me
The one who simply cannot see
Is wind-blown trust
from the Grace Giver
Golden leaves now dance instead
Gentle musings out my window,
Wind and trees a joyful mix, whispering words
To walk the way that winds, not straight
It’s serpentine
though paved with grace.
Joining Sandra Heska King for Still Saturdays
and Emily for Imperfect Prose
elizabeth w. marshall 