Lying down and staring out a large window one afternoon:
My eyes are drawn to long palm tips with brown, frayed edges.
They are sharp with yellow streaks
Yet blow gently in the afternoon breeze.
They reminded me of the old man’s long hair
I saw at the street festival
Ragged, yet soft-
He was a nice man, worn down by the years
And the sun that gleamed overhead
on lavender, grass, and his grey tips
All swaying in this afternoon breeze.
The old man looked to the sky
And so did I
Simultaneously-
hearing the quiet whispers
through frayed palm leaves.
poetrypretty 