#writing
#poetry

In the branches, last year’s leaves hang. Not many. The rest the wind blew from the trees.

It moves through the twigs, loosening whatever clings, leaf by leaf, until the branches are free.

Then it touches my face, without a hand, across my cheeks and forehead. I close my eyes, as if it had borrowed your hands. It knows my face.

Like an Aeolian harp, its soft strings played by the wind, I listen.

Hey Aeolus, play on.
Hey Aeolus, clear away – outside and within me.