Sometimes, I can't tell if it is rain or teardrops running down my face.
I long for silence, but the wind is screaming.
The wind, screams bloodcurling screams,
forcing my heart to beat faster than it did when you said those God-awful words.
When the wind screams, it sounds detached.
Like, it hears the screams, but can't realize they come from it's own mouth.
Maybe you broke the winds heart too.
Maybe you led it on.
Maybe your relationship with the wind was just as dysfunctional,
and now the wind is going insane with pain?..no, numbness.
The wind cannot feel, because there is only so much agony a heart can bare,
only so far you can tear it before it is shreds,
Sometimes mild and sometimes noisy is my mind, like the wind.
And my thoughts, like those rustling leaves, blown away far and near.
nerves know the visitor
can feel the lassitude the call
the sudden song.
soul sees the inner
movement will
thought tries description fails
the mind wincing at
a platitude which could startle
the tenth time
in well-kept yards fenced sprayed
the easy certainties unchallenged
wait for the visitor
to trample break stifling
air so trees crash
and fly lyrical
Lovers, forget your love,
And list to the love of these,
She a window flower,
And he a winter breeze.
When the frosty window veil
Was melted down at noon,
And the cagèd yellow bird
Hung over her in tune,
He marked her through the pane,
He could not help but mark,
And only passed her by,
To come again at dark.
He was a winter wind,
Concerned with ice and snow.
Dead weeds and unmated birds,
And little of love could know.
Before man came to blow it right
The wind once blew itself untaught,
And did its loudest day and night
In any rough place where it caught.
Man came to tell it what was wrong:
It hadn’t found the place to blow;
It blew too hard--the aim was song.
And listen--how it ought to go!
He took a little in his mouth,
And held it long enough for north
To be converted into south,
And then by measure blew it forth.
By measure. It was word and note,
The wind the wind had meant to be--
A little through the lips and throat.
The aim was song--the wind could see.
Now close the windows and hush all the fields;
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
It will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.
Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking down hill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and day was past.
Sombre clouds in the west were massed.
Out in the porch’s sagging floor,
Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.
The rain to the wind said
‘You push and I’ll pelt.’
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged--though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.
Winds blow the open grassy places bleak;
But where this old wall burns a sunny cheek,
They eddy over it too toppling weak
To blow the earth or anything self-clear;
Moisture and color and odor thicken here.
The hours of daylight gather atmosphere.
All crying ‘We will go with you, O Wind!’
The foliage follow him, leaf and stem;
But a sleep oppresses them as they go,
And they end by bidding him stay with them.
Since ever they flung abroad in spring
The leaves had promised themselves this flight,
Who now would fain seek sheltering wall,
Or thicket, or hollow place for the night:
And now they answer his summoning blast
With an ever vaguer and vaguer stir,
Or at utmost a little reluctant whirl
That drops them no further than where they were.
I only hope that when I am free
As they are free to go in quest
Of the knowledge beyond the bounds of life
It may not seem better to me to rest.
The moon
pours liquid beams
on hard white snow
that hit with a splash
then freeze
to nothingness
while the wind
laughs at pines
thoughtful
shivering
sighing for spring
leaning on hills
coldly defiant
guarding bodies
of dead streams
in hard coffins
When Year grows old
its hair grows gray and white.
Then Wind picks up its giant scissors
and begins to shear it off.
So, as I told you many times before,
the white wool which during the winter
covers everything is not snow -
it's the shorn white hair of the old year.