Parchment palms drift slowly
Down towards the silent gatherings
Of delicate nomads with their
Butterfly hearts
Trembling lips of nature
Linger closer to the ground
With their borders slightly
Apart welcoming the dust
Soft faces yearning to
Be caressed by stone
And loam and dried
Up patches of leaves
Just gently falling through
Thick air turning thin with
The passing time and time
Again to signal another time
