The Tempest

In one short week, the leaves have flushed, shuddered, and flown, and the trees are left quite bare. I enjoy this change in scenery, but it does evoke a quiet longing for the gentler days of May and June which, for those of you who wonder, are only seven months away.


The Tempest

How high the wind will blow;
Aeolus in the trees
rehearsing for the show
in prefatory breeze,
and all the earth, below,
an overwrought tableau
and ill at ease,

and then the wind, a song
in timpani and string
and crashing on the gong,
no arias to sing,
unchains a surging throng,
as turbulent and strong
as any king,

to devastate the leaves
that linger on the bough;
their ebbing grip receives
a buffeting, and how
they hurry to the eaves
with indecisive heaves.
Will you allow

this long-awaited coup
and mutiny begun?
No more the morning dew,
no more the gentle sun,
as tempests run askew,
so eager to pursue
their seething fun.