Aug 13, 2013

Leaves, left

The skies are open in Boston but its streets below are clogged.
Drops descend in arpeggio, ripples cannot stop.

Gusty winds have ravaged, what drought had turned to gold.
Puddles littered with lives that will ever be un-told.

A day or two then passes, leaves a fresh new start.
Yet always a little trace left, of things that have just passed.

No comments:

Post a Comment