Leaves rush past the window
thrashing more than dancing.
But skip they may slowly
should the fierce wind calm its blow.
Wooden bowl nestled on a sill
silent, still
holds dark red apples
in its mouth—
remembers standing tall
remembers standing tall
in a former life.
Leaves rush past the window.
Wooden bowl still on the sill
its sides itching for a kiss of wind
shaking its once leaf-laden arms.
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Latest posts by Jennifer Ruth Jackson (see all)
- Shaking Leaves - 4th November 2021