A Sound I Can’t Hear
“I am trying to make them photo poems, like Siamese twins. Not as good without each other. Often, photographic poems with a narrative.”
A Sound I Can’t Hear
Higher in the Rockies,
winds tune themselves
on the mountains and Ponderosa needles.
September cold, the wind blows asters
flat for seconds,
then yellow-eyed,
they spring back purple as
any distant peak.
Steamy, bubbling clouds
announce summer’s end
spilling over the bowl edge
of the Sangre de Christos.
A few aspens huddle near the tree-line,
they hear the clouds
and yellow its leaves
before colder winds bring them
a harsher change of costume.
These aspens reveal the first vague
map of Autumn’s advance
where mountains, clouds, and trees
hear the howling winds I can’t.
By Steve Heins
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