The sadness of puppies is like the trees 

moving lightly from the breeze of the wind.

The hiding place of rain shivers underneath the 

broken wood floorboard in the living room.

The rock bottom of October never will allow 

the burning hot sun of August shines through.

The enemy of green hides between the 

dusty history books on the middle shelf in the library.

The swirl of loneliness sounds like 

biting into a fresh, ripe orange.

When you toss sadness to the wind, it returns 

as the boiling hot water used to make tea.

The shape of the past fits inside 

my white coat pocket.