The wondering oak’s red glare,

the cold clouds moving my head,

I’m deaf to the sounds,

and miss the signals.


So I’m black sentences

and the gray cloud, only gray

beyond the heart,

missing his meal.


I could miss winter’s tumult

arriving in keys of red and gold,

I’m empty and silly on the river

smiling, making noises being deaf

to all the order before me.


Dave Barber

1 Nov 08

Natural Laws