Do leaves green when love is found,
or fall from trees when hearts break;
Does the tide rise when lips meet,
or withdraw when hands let go?
What about the wind, that whispers,
a need of something to be said,
yet a voice, left without proper words,
is lost in beckoning gales.
And so clouds release frozen tears,
chilling the warmth of closeness,
forcing separation of near embraces,
hearts turn cold, forcing retreat.
For I do not care to resolve,
the riddle is uncomprehended,
except by those who realize,
true love never worries of such things.
Jaymes Ian Woode