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Cold is the season and
Raging winds are lashing
And looping and out of control.

Clouds grow black and fierce
And leaves are sent spinning
Through the air,
Dancing to an imaginary tune.

Sitting in a lonely bus shelter
Is a little boy looking quite lost.
I want to hug him and take him home
But I sit by him
And watch his tears.

His parents marriage is over and
He wants to assume the blame.
Poor boy.
Not old enough to understand
The why's and the wherefore's of us mere
Grown up's.

We chat and his face brightens
As he plants a sweet kiss upon my cheek
And dances off with the leaves
Into the raging wind.

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