Lost In The Trees

In the out of the way
we sit and watch
the sea planes
and strollers
pass this porch
on a warm June evening.
The soft drum roll
of the rickety rocking chair
serenades a mute storm
roiling behind forest brown eyes.
There is a conversation,
there is an arugment
there is an endless roar
of mouthless voices
but the few words spoken
are measured breadcrumbs
leading back
to the one
who is lost
in the trees.