A rustling passes, slack on branches thin
To carry down by feet, held still by whim
That noticed it in passing, by the
scrape of somber leaves
That weigh in tangles by their mossy skin
It whispers eager things to him
Of joy, and smiles, and sin
It lifts his gaze to the graying, clouded sky and
lets his fingers loose from their embrace
To curl about the coattails of the wind