Wednesday, June 08, 2005

Poem for the first semester

by Mila D. Aguilar

I don't know the language
Of which they speak
As they fly busily about

After the rain.
I can't tell why
After some minutes

They stop
Going about their business.
Is it the wind rustling

Gently through the leaves?
Or are they done?
The skies may be gray,

But I share their joy
Over the coming and going
Of the rain, the way

The plants green and preen
Over the end
Of a long withering summer.

June 8, 2005
10:00-11:06 am


Ritz said...


mda said...

Hello, Ritz.