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Posts Tagged ‘wind’

I heard a little rustling,

A noisy sort of bustling,

On a cold November morning,

Outside my window light.

 

Then I looked into the street;

The leaves were on their feet,

Marching, marching onward; no retreat;

The wind had called the fight.

 

They’d been called on that day,

With others brown and gray,

And the mother tree that nourished them

Now couldn’t bid them nay,

As they scurried and hurried with their might. -eab, 11/1970

 

After living three falls without seeing or hearing falling leaves (Hobe Sound, Florida) was interested in the sound of wind pushed leaves on an old brick sidewalk in Paris, Ohio.  House our apartment was in, was an old stagecoach stop built when Abraham Lincoln was only 15.  

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The wind delivered a seed,

(Though nature’s not known for speed)

To a notch in the niche of time.

Delivered its parent weed,

Of what is commonly feed,

For the fowls of the southern clime.

 

Its diameter was flat,

As it lit with a “splat,”

On the aqua that was color lime.

But its profile changed – fat,

As it stood and later sat,

On the comfortable, friendly, bottom slime.

 

All the minerals that were due,

Were there with water too,

Standing well above its newly budded head.

And the warmth that filtered through,

From the sun and wind that blew,

Found it lying, living on its bed.

 

It grew straight and tall,

And the roots – it let them fall,

Opposite of the way the stem had led.

It answered maturity’s strong call,

And produced its one small ball,

Before it left the living for the dead.

 

Now that might have been the end,

Of the tale that I rend,

If there had not been an arthropod,

Who came, the stem to bend,

And tether it to a “friend,”

Out there many yards from sod.

 

The spider’s personal trail,

That descended from his tail,

Took hold of each slim sturdy rod;

Made a home that looked quite frail,

But could withstand any gale,

As planned by The Architect – God.

 

The slender, cylinder, tower died

And in its death was satisfied,

Propagating its own peasant herd.

Little knowing, its form complied,

To the arachnids web that tied

It with another, and then a third.

 

Men may likewise thoughtless be,

About what they leave, effecting eternity;

Failing to understand what has occurred.

Having eyes that cannot see,

Often like you, and like me,

Not giving others a place to gird.  -eab, 10/69

 

Written after dove hunting, west of Hobe Sound, Florida

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Life is like the milkweed pod;

Head in the air, roots in the sod,

Tender in youth, stiffer with age,

Little in green, older in beige.

Seeds are like years, sprinkled to the wind,

The start known; unknown the fluffy end.

Life is like the milkweed pod. 

 

  -eab, 10/82

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Written while at Christ College and Academy,Friendsville,Tennessee 

 

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