sometimes, at night
I walk the dark streets of Thibodaux
just me and my mutt
Zoe
my poets' inner concentration
allow me to hear
leaves on the trees
as they talk to me
no, of course they do not speak
but they do talk
when, in the wee hours of morning
city traffic almost nil
far off a dog barks
sensing Zoe
and possible trouble
wintertime and midnight past
the best time
to listen to the leaves
as I walk street after street
finding a good place
I stand still
Zoe sitting near my feet
I begin to hear
the gently rustling leaves
of ancient oaks
the strange needle-like leaves
on the odd-shaped
cypress trees
whisper to me in bits and pieces
of the leaves observations
since the first settlers
a red man's tribe were here
then came the French
and all the rest
I listen, as does Zoe
I feel small
within the company of ghosts

©March 15, 2012 / Jerry Pat Bolton