Little Brother He knows why I wrote this. Brown eyes, in the trees Shy, furtive motion, Uncertain and hesitating Will the wind knock him over this time? My Little Brother With his brown hair in his eyes Peeking through the veil Both shield and cage, aching to be gone. Grey eyes, tempest-born I am kin to the trees too, But I have not the patient soul And I dance in the flames But out of the ashes come seedlings And out of disaster comes wisdom Shall I bring you rain and sunshine To tend your heart's tree again? I cannot do it for you, But I will sit on the stone wall And watch for eagles on the wind And dryads dancing through the forest. © Anne Cross, 1997

Created: December 3, 1998 Last updated: December 17, 1998 http://www.watson.org/~juniper/poetry/brother.html