Monday, April 16, 2018


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 watching 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
Lightly awkward
Gracefully clumsy
Careful in a cavalier kind of way…

They all run away
In rhythm to some unknown energy

Laugh dancing across the porch

I watch.
I consider.

What if it is not the wind?
What if it is of their own accord?

~Sister Saxon~

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