Poem for Writer's Cramp |
Upon the wind the whispers drift, Preparing a path for fog and cold chills. With a wisp of their wisper the leaves fall from drooping branches. It is a big hullabaloo of a notice for a very royal arrival. Another wisp of the whisper blows through creaking shutters... Just enough to rustle a blanket, Which tugs just a tad tighter. In a dance they conjure the orange leaves in a swirl, The Windy Wispers prepare their howls and Blow open the curtains for a very regal arrival. A spirit of queenly stature follows in the wake of the whispers; Hair of burnt brown and yellow and orange And a leafy dress of similar leafy colors. She nods to the Whispers with all of her approval. With a swoosh of her skirt that conjures the wind even stronger, she makes but one adjustment to complete the darkening picture. All prepped and crowned she converses with the heavens; It IS for her only to change the Sun's disposition. And she settles into her thrown of decayed woven twigs; The Wind's Whispers turn to court gestures to amuse her solemn humors with rain drops and changing colors on her rolled out carpet of Crunching leaves and dried up flowers. Behind her throne of dead woven twigs, She winks and nod to the awaiting Winter. After all, it is all pomp and circumstance For the next royal entrance. |