Around the tower, the gusting wind rolls
the leaves, lifting them to take flight
before laying them gently in the grass.
Leaves decay and enrich the earth.
But the tower stands as it has for a century.
Its rocks enrich nothing but our illusions.
It solidly stands as a testament to our fears
our grief and our pain.
Letting nothing in; it holds only its own.
An angel in disguise, the tower stands firm.
Rejoicing in the leaves, playing with the wind,
Protecting and freeing what dwells inside.
An atoll in the ocean offering a respite from the
Thrumming of the waters, and the current’s endless pull;
A cottage in a clearing with trees ringed round;
A canyon in the wilderness guiding our footsteps
through dirt and pebbles back to our foundations.
Towers as guardians, honoring our souls, giving us wings;
And the wind: the Voice of the Immortal.