The Breeze

A thought becomes a poem

they tie an orange ribbon to Her
sporadic spots up the hill

sorry Mother you can’t be here
we’ll cut you down in the Spring

but She’ll be here longer
then the noisy humans

She remembers
the silence of before and

the insipid back-up beepers will die
leaving a beautiful quiet after

and She’ll thrive, fall down
and thrive again and

the only sound missed
will be the scratching of my pen