The oak’s progeny reigns on the ground,
coaxed by the wind;
the moon’s fan dance behind the clouds,
moved by the wind;
the leaves stretching out, down to their end,
coaxed by the wind;
and all the feelings coarsing outward,
brought by the wind.

I quickly fell out of poetic practice after NaPoWriMo. There’s more to this fragment, but I haven’t made it work yet. Decided I should post the partial draft.