by Kris Green
Two birds sing as the rain dissipates.
The leaves drink and stretch endless vines across the garden.
Crickets join the chorus of chirping insects.
Fruit discarded, left to die on wounded soul.
The ground downtrodden; the steps lead away.
The earth takes back the fruit, to blossom and bloom again.
The moon peers down giving side-glances toward the sun in open day.
Surrounded by the assembly of clouds,
Who already have begun to drink their voided reservoir.
The pressed meadow, that years from now kings would wage war over,
Is alive with symphony of terrible life,
Forsaken to grow wild without its keeper.