Gone the west wind’s lilt
and laughter, the forest-sighs
of trees
as twisted woodgrain meets
the screaming blade
and wallboards tremble
at the exact moment
late afternoon sun comes
angling through
an upper window, motes
go flying in light-
struck splatters,
a galaxy that swirls
and settles
sawdust on the floor.
Taylor Graham, California, USA
I love the sounds in this poem though i hate to think of trees being cut down!
ReplyDeleteI like the sights, sawdust motes are beautiful.
ReplyDeleteThe sounds do it for me.
ReplyDelete