The leaves fluttered in the wind,
My hands almost slipped,
Roused me from a dream,
It can’t be done,
Except by nature.
The traffic snakes away to my left,
And above my lowered eyes are mouths,
That roar and shout the daily news.
This part of the world,
By turns has moulded my mind,
Into a rock of meditation.
Something gentle like a toss of hair or head,
Surprises me more these days,
Than a gallant call or shriek of dread.