Neighborly

The dreams faded, and the coals gone to ash; a morning wakes 
to find an awkward annoyance with the dew but not the wind. 
With a shudder the morning finishes its routine by setting an 
indigo bunting to ponder outside my window. 
As it does so the wind waves and passes by, being careful not 
to shake the pines this time. 
Even still, I know I cannot ask any more favors and I cannot 
prolong the inevitable. 
A similar fire roared in my heart all night long. 
A small blue flame which, embarrassed, turned pink when 
fanned by my drifting dreams, left the smell of smoke outside. 
It now lingered and teased the ants, for; as clever as they are, 
not being able to produce their own. 
Perhaps they one day remember the solace it was not having 
the power and responsibility of burning the forest. 
Some nearby grass listened to this thought and wondered, truly 
silent now, where had the days gone where the brook didn’t 
babble on all day as a crooked overhanging tree convinced it of 
its stupidity. 
The tree merely didn’t understand the brook’s babbling. 
In fairness, neither did she. 
As the grass laid back that night, glancing at the stars as it did 
so, these thoughts went away. 
For those were thoughts of the day.

f.w.

6.28.17

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