The Breeze To Me And Her Alike Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The breeze brushes my lips as
It brushes hers;
Whitman might say it paints the
Throats of leaves the
Same in different orchards,
Be they wild or tamed.
The librarians and bus drivers
Don’t care.
They just want you returned home
On time:
Coquina pathways- rattlesnakes,
Orange trees.
The breeze says to me and her
Alike,
“Youth, youth- awaken up-
You are no longer young,
And she has long since gone away.”