The Press Of Time

You already knew the wind speaks in every language. Just listening you feel dry bark scrap your skin. You see thin trees, wood chips, green leaves swaying in the cool air, bushes shaking and bending, ant hills scattered across the sidewalks or hidden beneath yellow-petalled dandelions. As much winter grass dances around their stems as new grass sprouts today, yellow in the yellow light. So the seasons cross each other in the press of time. On still days the silence carries the wind's message. Without talking you point to every needed sign. Your eyes and mine look for summer's first day.