I’d Call The Wind More Than Wind

I'd call the wind more than wind 

Spring seems cruel

for its sense of nostalgia;

and he is now

a shadow of gust.

 

This season knows his guilt.

 

And I feel him

lying close to the ground.

The soft flapping

of his shirt and trousers.

 

He smells the earth —

absorbs it stain

of wet mud, olive moss.

 

Behind, his schoolboy satchel —

that bulge of cloud

creased on the horizon, filled

with storm & birds. old weather tales,

omens. All ignored.

 

For now, he is breeze

remembering what stirs in the soil:

snail or slug, earthworm…

such good fishing bait.

 

And what lives on

in the remnants:

barn splinters & pigeon feathers,

rust flakes from the wheel

of a homestead rake

and threads of an apron

stitched and starched by hand.

 

The voice

of its woman heard

(still sobbing) when rain falls

among the vine leaves. Ivy

that grew back binding

the ruins of a burnt building.

 

The footprints

of horse & others

are left on a hill stretching

toward a limestone wall,

 

and the sea

always near, waiting for someone

to come or go.

 

That night, he belonged to March —

swift, so eager

to steal a lantern’s flame.

 

3 comments

  1. A child’s imagination is a blank canvas upon which many memories are painted, and the most mundane things are the paints and brushes.

    Like

  2. Dear Michael and Craig

    Thank you both so much for reading and commenting on my poem. I deeply appreciate it!

    My Best
    Wendy

    Like

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