Second Song Poem by Jeff Hobbs

That part which is beyond us...
Eyes are staring outward
Grasping, tickling
A song, a young song
Drifts yet again through
The air to whoever
receives.
A sacrament of purely human love
Of desire beyond our
Limited comprehension.
Infatuation creeps up, grasping
Grabbing
There is an unsettled
Rustling in the air.
The song soothes but the problem
Remains
All is a rustling.
And as dead leaves gather
Below the tree
Their decay will bring
Growth
Pushed by a song of the wind.

(15 August 1984)