Poem 78



The trees at school dance at the coming autumn wind
their yellow leaves fluttering on the waving branches
of the small forest just outside the library.
The sight to be seen through the large window panes
is but a glimmer of the world of ever changing beauty.
The urge to lose oneself in the image of nature,
in the image of all things unreachable by man
closes in like bees to honey.

c.velajune 2015


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