the wind also sings
out of my register
it flings me to second chair
with a worship beyond world
like an armed vanguard
it heaves a mighty word upon us
with the insistent roar of a highway
Coming! Come. . . ing!
weaving the trees
thatching a banquet hall
sweeping it clean
the wind also sings.
make room in me for new things,
for I cling hard to the thin trees of winter
and the mint taste of cold air.