Stephen

I want to fly away, As I stand here twisting the clover, The spinning, green propeller Between my forefinger and thumb. The clouds are slow today, Morphing into animals Migrating across the serenity of the blue, Erasing the day, leaving a black board To be speckled at night. This old maple wants to fly too, Lunging to join His wayward leaves, but Like me, is rooted to the ground, Left cold and alone, to look at me.