Not being Nostradamus

.

The winds speak to us
in sign language
with voices loud enough

to be heard
through the cracks of doors
and windows.

The tree branches rustle
against outside walls and
speak Babel and in shadows

that dance on the inside walls.
They complain about
the plight of untamed seasons

and when their darkness lays
on edge they have passed on
in the shape of strewn trunks.

The noise of grief is deafening.
They are my brothers
and my sisters.

~~~
Alex Nodopaka May ©2011