notMetaphor Poetry leaves turn

leaves turn

Leaves turn

tumble me over

slight breeze

of dirt soft


grasses flow amongst

thickets    bone

dried in time,

the rock listens

like gentle rain

in earth- its ears

grow up and around

like fingers,

cool feathers

of thought entwined


echoes reside

and fracture;

divine themselves through

twisted sticks

I hear

silence of stars

brush wind

against my lips   face   skin-

a soft wonder of


walks over me

around and


I stand.