"Wind blown whispers snake their way into my dreams.
They coil within me like seductive emissaries from
beyond my understanding.
Bowed by the rain, the trees are listless, limp and grey.
Their branches sag like woeful wooden puppets.
The rain on their leaves whispers like the beat of wings
against the window;
Like gentle, lovers laughter; like an argument
or a snarl of broken dreams.
They are a sound and a flavor that haunts the lips-
A forgotten fragrance of perfumed promise-
A vastness without bounds."
Robert King/ Journal