Wednesday, March 23, 2011
As Winter leaves,
The last of Winter's leaves
In corners, crevices, and crannies,
Like old women gossiping,
They give occasional nervous flutters
As though having been suspiciously waiting for my broom.
I approach and some snap to attention.
A small cackling crackle of life.
Yes - they had been waiting.
My broom moves and so do they
They all run away
In rhythm to some unknown energy
Laugh Dancing across the porch.
What if it is not the wind?
What if it is of their own accord?
Sara Joanne Saxon Hill
March 23, 2011