Turned Down

It was the wind that woke me. In the sky
the clouds played leapfrog on some joyous blast
and through their veils the moon came sailing by,
and not to miss things, ere the play was past
I crept downstairs and softly went outside
and heard the tune the wind sang in the leaves
and what she meant, and what the leaves replied
in whispered supplication to the breeze.
It was a tale told oftentimes before,
a déjà vu that made my breath come cold –
the trees implored the wind to give them more;
she laughed at them and said they were too old
and quit to leave the trees stand stiff and white
with misery, bathed in the moon's cold light.