POEM - FLOATING LEAVES

Today the old oak tree
That watches over us
Turned copper in the morning sun
Its fire-tipped leaves
Glimmering as the wind
Ran its fingers through
The benelovent branches
A harbour for each of the souls
That find themselves here
Looking for a port in the storm.

We collect lost souls,
The tree and I,
Keeping them safe
As they spill their secrets
Without saying a word,
Floating leaves
Passing through
And when they are gone,
We release their energy
For the wind to catch
And turn golden in the sun.