the writing on the wall

I have a
window

where the
branches sing

in the
evenings when

the wind
tumbles down

in slow
motion

from a
nearby hill.

 

I have a
gate,

and its
hinges scream

in the
evenings when

the mind
crumbles down

in emotion

while
everything is still.

 

because
sleep stands

out of
reach

in the
meadow

outside the
window,

I stare at
it

through the
singing branches

until dawn.

 

because the
gate would wail

in the
night

if I open
it,

I stare at
the street

and the
still

but singing
branches

until dawn.

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