the poet's hand

birds flutter like leaves in the wind
and the trees, like rainbows, turn over in the chill breeze
their shadows swim across the cement while the sun grazes a half blue sky
the fall of the anarchist summers cycle again giving way to new reign and season
ironic, however, the palette that's chosen
warmth bursts a flame drenching the hillside
while cool skies little by little or sometimes in larger steps drop
temperatures that clothe us
then eventually, as time slides by, earth takes her bed sheet,
leaving trees to rake clouds.
now let my wash this hand