on windy october nights
composers refrain from
blue green
crescendos
they lay aside rising sound shapes
of water chasing itself to
the sea,
or thousand part choirs
in sunny meadows.
on the dark side of
equinox
flutes rest, and strings
voice only
far wind on fence wire
now come the percussionists:
hungry bones clacking in
treetops,
fingers tugging
at heaven
for one more day
forgotten fields shush
in
thrashing wind
like sea waves
returning to
shore alone
to empty a widow’s heart
of any hope in spring’s return
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