by Shawn Bailey

Created on: September 30, 2010   Last Updated: October 10, 2010

The air is placid

they hold fast

their wafer thin

filigree,

dry,

with branching hollows

cutting speckles of sun

into rivulets of ocher.

Their cookie cutter

outlines

pasted randomly,

swaying gently to some

mellifluous incarnation

borne of the most

natural wind instrument

known,

and painted

in temporary pastels

that mock death

Its grip falters

and it submits

to a lifelong

yearning

to return from whence it came

It falls

     dies

        disintegrates

           feeds the roots

              and reincarnates.

The air is placid.

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