Winds pick up and then howl.
This is the behavior of the air
when it is given temperature
and the touch of body and branch.
Movement is not known
without that which is moved.
Foolishly, my heart breaks
as a hurricane dismembers the great spruce
outside the corner of my little house.
These conditions that spin me
up into Oz,
some leftover heat from another life
and the fragile desires I have planted,
why did I think they would last
and not take up with inclement change?
Of course, the wind, my heart, and the world
will all stop someday.
For now I must be content
to catch little branches
of knowing that go blowing by.
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