Poems on the topic: wind

Poems on the topic “wind” on Poets.by.

ContemplativeDave Bonta

Raw

wind and rain we settle one by one at the little table
AnxiousDave Bonta

Loose lips sink ships

In the coffee house, talk is a great wind. Trees blow down and we have letters from the forest. A thousand oaks walk to Brampton in the news: they make a good tale, thieves that rob us of time.
DreamyDave Bonta

Outage

in a house without power the sound of the wind appliances have stopped humming chargers no longer glow the masks on my walls stare steadfastly into the darkness i offer myself again on the altar of sleep
InspiredDave Bonta

Oaks as Teachers

give me shade tolerance so i can worship the sun at a cellular level teach me the dance in abundance the sects of insects how to work like an artist’s model with wind or fire how to mine in place and turn the soil into an accomplice how to communicate with an alien life form in speech acts of pure energy how to grow wound wood
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Blueberrying: four haiku

sawgrass the crickets fall silent when the wind blows blueberry bog the soft clink of car keys in my pocket blue star at the end of each berry filling the bucket picking berries against the winter a fly on my lip
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Separation

Mind the gap they said and I didn’t. There’s a storm wind but no storm. Children play in the distance or maybe fight. Don’t mind me I murmur to a deer trotting past while I type this on my phone standing still as a tree at dusk just vibrating a little from a Swainson’s thrush on his yearly trip north. I’m mindful that everything human in this hollow comes from the gap
ContemplativeDave Bonta

The Hollow (41)

38 years old the one-acre blowdown is all grown up how big was that wind twin basswood trunks still stretch wide one beech limb has grown back into the tree the storm was too much they heard the wind a half mile away the hollow’s own howl
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Guise

That gobbling on the ridge: turkey, or turkey hunter? That whistle: factory or train? I follow a vole’s progress by watching where the grass trembles— until a breeze springs up. How the weasel must hate the wind! And how it must strive to sound exactly like it.
SadDave Bonta

Remnant

An oak tree toppled in a high wind 20 years ago has rotted almost to nothing, leaving just the twist of roots— spokes of a rimless wheel, crippled star. As if whatever hardness kept this clutch from holding tight now won’t let it go.
AnxiousDave Bonta

Makeshift

What would the wind do without the daffodils’ yellow hoopla of blooms? Tree leaves are still packed tight as gunpowder in their slim cartridges. When the wind brings the rumor of a storm, only the rhododendron turns pale.
ContemplativeDave Bonta

Onion snow

The March winds have blown wet snow sideways against the trees— look in one direction and the woods are white; in the other, brown. The snow sticks to our boot soles, lifting like lids from jars full of spring.
CheerfulDave Bonta

Snowmelt

The bare ground seems at first an oversight, then a growing scandal— all that anonymity stripped away, the brown earth caught without its papers, and the pines like secret agents sifting every seditious whisper of the wind.

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