The sky, a wispy white,
flows across an endless painting
of which we call
The amber leaves wave in the brisk wind
And the wind starts up with a flurry,
but I have no worry.
The sun gives off a strange dark light of which I have not seen,
yet I sit here, glued to my rocky seat.
Noises washed out by the wind
with fear that I might hear
the cool wind found its way to me
and brought all its terrors, too.
The storm is almost here,
I can hear it coming near.
I know I should get up and find my way inside
but I know fear,
so by my tree I stay.
All must think it suicide
to sit on this rock here
but with my imagination to help me get away
maybe I shall sit here yet another day.