The Language of Leaves by Lulu Logan
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| Image | Jack Gittoes |
The Language of Leaves
Through the open windows
I hear them, restless and agitated,
gathering together in a
great shout
awakening me, beckoning me
to attend to their call.
I pull back, wishing to turn away
slam shut the window.
I don’t understand
the language of leaves
but I have blown my voice
seeking a listener,
a true heart
a love story.
I lean closer,
not peeling away
for the tree’s song, his lyrics
are a familiar call to me.
“Weary are my roots,” she calls,
“Bring to me my brittle staff.
Your bag carries remedies
overflowing, folded secretly
in silence,
a balm to soothe me.”
I step through the window
intent on easing the downward,
inward ache.
The rustling limbs reach for me
bark and branch
soft as rabbits fur
caressing my lashes,
swaddling my being
with the gentle
touch of lover.
I swoon with ecstasy,
determined never to return
to where I once lived.
© Lulu Logan
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| Lulu Logan Lulu and her three 4-legged children live happily together, cozily nestled every morning within the piles of pillows and blankets, welcoming the sunrise in Winter Garden, Florida.
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Just beautiful!
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