Whenever the wind blows in spring,
I ask of it; why blow the flowers away?; and the wind would have no answer
Except to hurl flower petals at my feet.
When the wind blows in Autumn; so does Winter come,
And with its coming so leaves all the joyous reds and oranges and yellows.
Like pigeons scattering after a gunshot
But slowly, haltingly, hesitatingly,
Like feathers floating upon the surface of a pond,
Swirling and pausing with every eddy of water.
When the wind comes in the night,
And I am alone,
And my hot hands leave steamy fingerprints upon the cold glass
I watch the wind, and pretend I can see its movements.
Sometimes I think I can see them, a shadow in the darkness.
But the wind would laugh at my assumptions by rattling my windows when I least expected it.
The Storm, the Wind,
Howling and tearing across the land, so wild and free,
Rain spattering across the ragged earth, such cold earth and stone.
I think I hear ancient footsteps walking along with mine in this wildness.
And I, c