Somehow,

 

When the leaves rustle

 

And,

 

Wind leaves play behind, 

abandoned for 

bustle,

 

In the small, squeezed space, 

between 

whispers, 

and echoes, 

of innocent 

Time,

 

And tremors roar with today’s sorrow, and

 

Redemption waits where

 

old flowers crumble: passive on the palms of idealist hands,

 

Where tears oft splashed, 

and the heart’s 

blood 

leaked,

 

And a man so forsook, what 

once 

was a 

child’s 

Nook,

 

So that there again, by nature’s balance

 

Love, anew, is born!

 

A tree rises,

 

And leaves’ shadows guard

 

a noble thrust, of

an unblemished 

youth’s

Fuss!

_________________

 

R.V. Smith: “Foliage”, 01-16-23

 

© 2023 by Ryan Vincent Smith