The cold autumn winds cannot reunite leaves
by barry white
with trees-the robins rain enraptured eyes
and wind waltzed wings tempt caged tears that grieve.
A widow plants flowers-her old man lies
ready to caress the contours of a rose,
his fingers are phantoms too frail to grip
a swaying rose as the cemetery gates close
and with newly found notes the robin slips
into a rhapsody. Fingers rove across
thorns, a flower soothed into stillness
a wifes haunted heart made still by the loss
of harking for the music of madness.
Under red winter skies a robin bathes
snow falls from thorns below ice captured graves.