Wandering Wind wonders, "Loose leaves left?"
Green's gone, yellow saunters, Red's crusting.
Passively, Wind ponders its reapings and thefts.
Once a canopy's now's a carpet: dreadfully dirty and dusting.
Yellow considers, contemplates and fears:
absorption to the soil, worms, ants, and bugs;
Can no longer see the faces of his peers...
Will no longer get the satisfaction of touches and hugs.
Green danced through a windy maelstrom,
beautiful to watch, Yellow oohed and awed her grace:
eventually penetrated-ripped by Fury Hail-storm.
She wisped Red, who never gave her embrace.
When Wind wailed, he watched her fall.
Whistling Wind didn't defeat him in belching blasts.
But the hole-ly lass looked frightened and small.
In the calm of calamity, he'd join her at last.
Wrinkled brown he descended to the defeated;
slowly drifting and willing they touch.
...So close to where she slumped seated.
Would she understand that he needed her so much?
They embraced around a seed, certain of their demise.
In the toil for each other's warmth, came a sprouting surprise.
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