Serenity is not the absence of wind,
But the assurance of an anchor.
Frosted blades scratch seamless sky,
angry to find no scars.
Serrated edge draws no blood,
nor sawing motion, vein;
Wind is no ally
when renewed rigour
results in naught.
Pain pitched at a hushed heaven
grows boomerang eyes;
the spy’s sabotage
along lines traced by rote.
drawn by frosted blades…
forest of the venerable,
sit in judgement of our age.
Shaking quaking locks,
they shudder at the cruelty
of those designed for love.
Juried leaves flutter anxiously in gossip –
“Did you hear that he …”
“She did what?…” –
and trunks tremble with disbelief.
So much boldness
in the ways of deceit and faithlessness.
Wind mourns softly,
ruffling the feathers of the Elders
who silently pronounce
the humans in the dock
Yesterday, you held your breath – the hot air closed in choking fist;
No oxygen was drawn to lung, the moisture clung, a humid mist
That, stationary, stalked so still that I thought you had died for good.
Now, you shriek in search of prey and seek for weak in frantic wood;
You toss the branches where you will. Snapping trees bow at your feet,
Offering penitential gifts; fences bend to you, complete
In deferential grovelling. Even you are so afraid
Of whatever demon gives you chase, you wail and gnash, emotion swayed.
You howl and whine at unseen foe and seek ingress at windowpane;
You beg and beat upon my door in frantic rush from field to lane.
Unnerving banshee, wicked gale, I feel you screaming in my chest;
O wind of powerful display, please hold your breath – I need a rest!
The wind is a restless soul tonight;
It rattles and shrieks in the tormented trees.
It teases the lamppost and makes her cry;
It chases the tail of the frantic breeze.
The panes and the lintels and frames are rattled;
They answer with sundry creaks and groans.
Shingles have all of their feelings flustered;
They vent their frustration in muffled moans.
Grasses and greenery join in the dance;
Cavorting and sighing, with frenzied wave,
They add to the motioned contortion; they prance,
And, all up in arms, with countenance grave
They heave, and they protest to bowing so low;
Creatures on edge, with tails fluffed on end
Slink around corners and sulk in moon’s glow,
Alarmed at the way in which all the world bends.
The wind is a restless soul tonight.
It enters my bedroom, infecting my rest;
My soul wanders with it, and, sensing its flight,
Allows it to rustle within my chest.