Our poetry club went on a fall retreat earlier this month. We sat under the golden aspens and wrote poems for almost an hour. Afterwards, we read our poems and then listened to a friend play his twelve-string guitar. What a treat! I wrote these poems that beautiful afternoon.
Golden leaves flutter
They timidly cling and shake.
Go, little birds. Fly!
Five aspen trees grow from
A single heart,
Like brothers and sisters playing
Ring around the rosies.
But none fall down.
In the silence under the trees, I hear the breeze tickle the quakies. I hear the shallow brook rippling over the rocks and I hear my own thoughts. They sound louder, clearer. In the silence under the trees, my voice is a sacrilege.
As time passes,
The cool breeze tells us it’s getting late.
We have to go back to our busy lives
Or do we?