Wish to Be Wind
Two men come,
With man-built instruments;
They laid on the ground
Tarps, big, blue, stretched
Canvases collect what
was left of this year’s trees.
Brown blankets break
Wet as gusts push threads
Debris flying heavily;
Cherry bombs pulse,
Pine needles, hardened
Crab apples.
Vibrance bled dry,
Fallen colors sapped,
Yellows spewed, seeping reds,
Sinking soil chokes
The green from where they grew.
Until two men come,
With their wish to be wind,
Blowing off life lost and leave
When we pay what the price costs.
Garrett Souliere is a professional writer and editor who lives in Virginia with his girlfriend and their four four-legged friends. Founding Editor and Publisher of Quibble, he’s also worked as Head Fiction editor atplain china, and previously been published in Rebel.
Image by AnnaS58012, CC BY 4.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
