She Waits

The oak on the corner Clings to last year’s leaves, While all around her, chestnuts and maples Unfold tiny umbrellas of tender green. But she loves the papery rattle of her faded foliage, And its feather-lightness.


And she has enough weight to bear: Hungry crows and squirrels, And the troubles of the passersby Who trail a wake of unshed tears And unspoken rage Along the rain-wet sidewalk.



New growth is softer, perhaps, but heavier, So she waits.


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Michelle Simkins

writer . maker . seer