You already knew the wind speaks <br />in every language. Just listening <br />you feel dry bark scrap your skin. <br /> <br />You see thin trees, wood chips, green <br />leaves swaying in the cool air, bushes <br />shaking and bending, ant hills scattered <br /> <br />across the sidewalks or hidden beneath <br />yellow-petalled dandelions. As much <br />winter grass dances around their stems <br /> <br />as new grass sprouts today, yellow <br />in the yellow light. So the seasons cross <br />each other in the press of time. <br /> <br />On still days the silence carries <br />the wind's message. Without talking <br />you point to every needed sign. Your <br /> <br />eyes and mine look for summer's first day.<br /><br />Daniel Brick<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-press-of-time/
