Poem: Blind

As I sit here hours milling away slowly,

let me tell you a story of a blind man and his sin.
He sees no colour to the seasons, 

they hold no meaning.

It’s the sounds that tell him season turn,

by the silencing trees and the crunch beneath feet.

It’s the fragrance that sing of spring,

or the bone chilling wind that heralds winter.

He tastes the earth through tangelo

or a glass of red,

but no way can he describe the beauty as we see. 
His eyes are his hands and feet, his ears and his skin. 

He can tell you many things, the way we dare not see,

but he can not read emotions on faces unseen.
Think not to fool a man who gives his friendship blindly. 

That sin is purely yours indeed.

Colour of skins

What a world it would be,
if people ceased to see,
the colour of skins and features beneath.

Seeing no more leaves

I was aiming to juxtapose our Mother Nature and human behavior in relation to one another. I’m not sure how she has turned out. Would love to know what you think of it.

Seeing no more leaves
Listen now to the sounds
those early morning chirps of birds
and chill lingering afresh, leaving dew on leaves
watch as the sky colors with looming light
the warmth that slithers and dives

She lays beneath leaves
on silk of grass
sea deep eyes closed
and breathes

The rustle of trees roars
when the smooth wind blows
and somewhere a while away
the wet river flows
gurgling, lapping the shores

She stirs
crushing the ground beneath
eyes opened to spy the sky through the leaves
patches of blue and green

The Earth yawns awake
with the birds, the seeping warmth
and spies another day dawn
another day to go quietly slipping
forgotten in the midst- that she too breathes and gives

She rubs her eyes of sleep
jumping to eager feet
eyes now fixed and shallow
and see no more leaves.