by Ryan Walraven
The wind flows, thick with wood smoke
and leaf-snagged chatter from far away roads.
I sink my hands into the mud and dredge
the fallen patterns of the sun.
In swaths of star-shaped leaves, I see math’s of
empty measure; by dockside, waves gathering.
The wind urges them on, and I listen for the crash.
Air, mud, trees, seas. The signs
blend like streams of incense, or the browns
and creams upon a cup of tea.
© Ryan Walraven 2015