Little Branches

By Steve Wardrip

Hiding in the draped wings,
The little yellow bird lights,
She, the lonely wind, sings,
Here comes a stormy night.

Blind hope, had only I known,
I would toss the dice to decide,
Ride the rail until the stars moan,
Never seek revenge, or hide.

Billowing reams of documents,
Half-truths strewn all about.
Then in steamy fit accoutrements,
The lady reporter is devout.

See, nature doesn’t need man,
Never did, certainly never will,
What’s important for we who stand,
Is to keep our backs against the chill.

Laughing out, crying in,
No one said, don’t be sad,
Bouts of depression just begin,
Proving what we never had.

The little branches hold love,
Any tree does the same,
As if it came from above,
This, how a face first became.

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