The Outside Edges Of Thoughts, Poem by ray summer

it wasn't sound it wasn't breeze,
it wasn't any parrots in those trees,
it cried like a unwelcome cry of pain,
the mosstree rubbed and touched my vain,
the dandelion even grey, still ready to blow,
as if the ground had a secret to know,
upon a single cloud adrift like smoke,
and dropped a shadow over like a cloak
that would not blow away or rain instead,
the trees confessed in rustling pain,
eons are lost within the barkcoverd limbs,
and time inside a leaf is a choir falling hymn,
so small and yet so big that melancholy tear,
the sky withdrew its certainty every year,
the stars grew pale unsure with care,
for something underneath the soil,
was breathing like a prayer.