By Katherine Johnson
April, 15, 2023
It seems the only visitors to my door,
Are last year’s leaves, brittle, brown,
Blown from the far side of my house,
Where they gather recalling
Last summer’s riot spent,
Waiting, murmuring, swirling,
For me to open the door
So they can rush in,
a barbarian horde,
And scatter across the floor,
The minions of the warrior wind
That when aroused, that wind rips too,
The shingles from my roof.
Copyright 2023 By Katherine Johnson – All Rights Reserved
Una Voce Sola 