When winds announce the fall of veils of rain, the scalding sun recoils, the quiet trees let branches bend to breezes that now reign and cool the day while answering our pleas. These winds that never sweep the seashore sands, nor know the paths that chill the mountains' air, allow the sun to rule the city lands, and make their home on river's banks, somewhere. They may prefer to push canoes downstream or sing in swamps beneath the forest's skies. The landscapes burn because the sun's regime lets winds come, only after nature cries. The sun returns and winds take rains away; our trees, that miss this love, refuse to sway.
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Updated Thursday, 04-Mar-2004 14:58:32 PST