One can sense when a revolution is coming.
The leaves swivel with a jagged splattering against the wind.
The rain dwells a little longer in hesitation of its own reprieve.
Drop shadows on banana trees cast grace upon earthlings.
Conversations take tones of a little cinnamon and cider.
Brows flip inverse to nonchalant pasts.
It is not only in the children who imagine the possibility but also in the opening of the gates of Hades that the demons are hearkened to show their faces so that fear might be known.
Ceilings in homes hang a little lower.
Oh fruit of the womb, where will we bury our fathers?
Distances weave journeys for the one and for the many.
In resonance, the placebo fills the hearts of the young and the hard souls of the old.
Cinnamon warms the heart to lend an ear
Cider soothes the soul to begin to believe.