A vine of words, green and waxed full
spring from his talking.
He stares at the sky, never tired of dark blue,
the unlimited wide space where he reaches
a hand toward it.
A subtle breeze from behind touches his hair,
lifting an edge,
disrupting order without his notice.
Cloud shadows form over him. Distant thunder
speaks in low tones.
He recognizes the change; the coolness and
strength amaze him.
Roger Singer 