All hands are off the wind, today
It flies free off the crest of an ocean wave
It must have watched with envy
The inland breezes
Hankering to taste the calm, green places
On swift feet it visits us now
It bandies leaves
Pushes the trees
Their drooping posture momentarily corrected
They let fly oranges in protest
Scorning these tokens
The shift mistral hurls past our shed
Disappearing at last over the dunes
L. R. Styles is an author with Belator Books
( Word Count 48,731 #NaNoWriMo )
The old wooden gate–outside my window–looks ready to be opened
It leans forward, hoping the wind pushes it far enough to swing out
Or, even better, that maybe someone will brush up against it
It longs for that slight, warm touch of hand to handle
The quick grasp–and lift of the latch–are all the gate wants
It must only dream of sanding and primer
Of lacquer and stain and constant use
I watch as the gate sits on undisciplined hinges
That long ago grew lazy and relaxed
The gate looks far older than it is, for Time has dressed it
In a web of cracks and taken bites from its domed top
Just out of sheer pity I go outside and walk over
The gate rattles–as I draw near–as if to say
“Do hurry and go through! No, don’t hurry… take your time.”
I admire this polite form of desperation and comply
The hinges squeal out reprimands at once
Ignoring them I hold the gate open at arm’s length
Allowing it to look up and down the lane
It revels in the breeze, scents and movement
As I release the gate, it settles back into place content
Moving slowly as an ascending queen
The sigh isn’t audible, but I feel it as I depart
L. R. Styles is an Author with Belator Books
{L. R. Styles} 