henny penny

henny-penny

The sky is not falling, see

that scurry of leaves

cross your path, feel

this bluster misting your face

now exposed to the deep

breath of dampening pine

 

see that line of young trees

drawing your eye to that

fog shrouded ridge

like school children chanting

red rover come over

 

while the wind caresses

chimes on your porch into song

and that dead limb at last

to let go

 

your spinning head stills

weariness embraced

and bidden to life

by Earth’s cyclical

spiraling dance

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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M.C. Reardon

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