Storm’s Comin’, Poet-Love

I feel it, and hear

Psithurism* in my head

Mind’s green willow trees

Gentle sweeping rustle…leaves

Are falling poetry words


They make rich carpet

Where heart’s feet may walk a path

Hands collect phrases

Which breeze swirled this way n’ that

For mystery story weaving


Basket of lyrics

Sorrowful, joyous psalms too

Muse clings to branches

Lest romance be blown adrift

Calls, “storm’s comin’, Poet-Love”

*Psithurism (noun): sound of wind in trees and rustling of leaves

©Avia Morrow, 2020 ~ All rights reserved.

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