Damp golden leaves lay in green grass,
The wind unable to blow them.
They lay weighed down from the morning rainfall,
An unending shower of cold wet droplets,
Pummeling down the dressings of now barren branches.
Winter comes in signs unsecretive,
Bearing its marks with a heavy hand.
Listen to my latest short story "The Forest Trail"
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Monday, July 16, 2007
I once saw a construction worker, chiseled and grizzled; smoking a short ivory cigarette in the growing red heat of a newly formed day. Drying some tears, I passed him by; and he seemed to me the most masculine male of a man I'd ever see in my days; especially now juxtaposed to my face, wet with tears. I seemed a little boy driving past a man, but a man who'd never let his emotions show no matter what weighed underneath his hard construction hat. While he a stone, I felt glad to be clay, showing the thumb prints which had pressed me into the shape I now displayed. I didn't want this masculine mold, impressing the world by being tough, meanwhile packing a bomb within to blow up from something small. While losing a battle with my emotions, and letting it all out, although feeling weak I felt thankful for my seemingly weak ways. My lady, She had forgiven me and I felt it undeserved. My gratitude gathered in small slithering tears, slipping down my cheeks to be smeared into my sleeves. I drove to work past a man made of metal and stone, his chimney lips pressed, puffing out smoke from the wick of a bomb within foreshadowed to explode.