Wind

The tender tempest touches the earth.
Wasted land and upended cars. And
trees left standing seem more like arms
of the sky sent to dig in the dirt.

But whether clouded in puffs of white
or shrouded in night the wood needs
no excuse. Yet all of nature stands
accused of deeds to dark for words.

Yet amidst the rubble of ruined lives
tips of aspen bend their ears to listen.
Desolation offers the peace that lives
in the heart of a night like this, while rivers
and streams rush to join the song of Heaven.

It sends stratus singing out across the landscape,
pointing at the tops of buildings and mountains.
It spirals cirrus out in wide arcs slicing blue sky.
It pulls the darkest nimbus and the whitest cumulus
together in a cacophony of silence and anticipation.

And the song reaches down to ruffle the hair of
someone late for an appointment. Finally,
the last verse of the day gives the city a little rest.
Breathing softly, it bats at pages
from yesterday's newspaper with the
long fingers of a summer night's breeze.

5.28.1989/
2.18.1996