by Ryan Walraven

The wind flows, thick with wood smoke

and leaf-snagged chatter from far away roads.

I sink my hands into the mud and dredge

the fallen patterns of the sun.

In swaths of star-shaped leaves, I see math’s of

empty measure; by dockside, waves gathering.

The wind urges them on, and I listen for the crash.

Air, mud, trees, seas. The signs

blend like streams of incense, or the browns

and creams upon a cup of tea.

© Ryan Walraven 2015