In dreary days
of November
leaves do rustle,
branches tremble.
Cold, dark fingers
across the sky.
Their colours drained,
all vibrance awry.
Winds of change
pushed, blown in hard
fair winged creatures
flit and tremble, scarred.
Flee from winter!
Escape the dark,
unless you’re rooted
planted firm in park.
Strip away all covers,
lay bare inner heart.
I am here, whispered quiet.
Here I am; a bud, a start…