Subtle winds warn the fronds
Of palms leaning tireless and mute
On the edge of a weathered path
Beware! A tempest threatens to unfold
One dares not admit defeat
There will be no retreat from the blanketing
Sunset hush
One moseys on – a mere gentle stroll
Brows are mopped
Sweaty whispers endure
Conversations refuse to grow old
As a brief pause ensues to behold the
Gradients of a storm foretold
thetomryan 