By Jenna Reimer
It was when a wave of sand cloaking the sky,
And its blackness became apparent, that I knew
Death was lurking within the matted clouds.
Crouching amongst the night-wind,
In the noisy leaves that were shouting at me,
Louder and louder,
An oak tree stood- motionless.
The clouds rose upward like a heavy smoke,
Changing from a musk to cemented air,
Where leaves burst into a flame of infatuation-
I cannot breath.
If ever this storm of tranquil belief should end
I would stop; my past emerging from my future
And die together as one
Like the Oak tree’s grounding roots.
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