this is not the first page,
nor have I reached the last
on days such as this,
what I most want to do
is fling them all upwards
for complete expungence
into the winds,
which in February burgeon
and whirl, thieving breath
and birds and leaves
and so why not these?
© Sarah Whiteley
winter is the eventuality
of all these leaves
writhing through the sky
past my window
the winds know this
and yesterday they ceased
their cautious whisperings
to dance and seethe
gleeful in the cold and damp
of fading October fires
the maples down the block
still blush fiercely
that the birch
have so willingly tossed
their yellow offerings
to the ground
in abject surrender
to the eventuality
of winter
© Sarah Whiteley
ebbtide 