Winds blow and scatter,
Puddles of rain,
Waves that drain,
Blood from my heart.
Cascades flow down,
Arms waiting, waving,
Over the silence inside,
To gainsay the calm.
Tongues tease the trees,
That stand strong, tall,
But slick to the touch,
Scraping to clinch a hold.
The storm struggles to be still,
To dry the wet watercolors,
Yet, twirling, whirling treetops,
And kneels of bells say no.
Ronald Whetsell's Creative Writing and Poetry Blog 