As He Was Sitting on a Windy Evening

Grey dripped from the sky
Like clockwork
As bending blades of grass
Bowed to the breeze.
The elements of a misshapen mystery
Took root next to a mulberry tree.
A melancholic stillness
Of something yet to be
Snaked its way through
The gnarled monstrosity
Called fragile evening.
4:47 p.m. to be exact
As if time was of essence
To his invisible tears,
Or the sentiment
That nearly escaped
From his back jean pocket.