Shy, furtive motion,
Uncertain and hesitating
Will the wind knock him over this time?
My Little Brother
With his brown hair in his eyes
Peeking through the veil
Both shield and cage, aching to be gone.
Grey eyes, tempest-born
I am kin to the trees too,
But I have not the patient soul
And I dance in the flames
But out of the ashes come seedlings
And out of disaster comes wisdom
Shall I bring you rain and sunshine
To tend your heart's tree again?
I cannot do it for you,
But I will sit on the stone wall
And watch for eagles on the wind
And dryads dancing through the forest.
© Anne Cross, 1997
Created: December 3, 1998
Last updated: December 17, 1998
Maintained by: juniper (at) fledge (dot) watson (dot) org.