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The wind drifts in the trees
singing its siren song
ruffling the clapper of the chimes
its toll is not for the dead,
but lamentations for the living
with movements from the morning
peeling to the pale pinks of evening
the wind sings its song...
little ones come as they pass
as the trees shed their leaves; their lives
young children play on the sounds
of the aging and not so aged as
it orchestrates the song of life
weeping as the winds whistle
through their hearts
while, in quiet flight
their souls whisper softly
and dance the dance of night..
© 1999 Sim F. Sutterby, S
