if the words were real
and leapt off the line?

because you're skilled, or
because you have nothing else?

if they only lied to save your feelings?

if all it took were imagination?

if light weighed more than a thousand bricks?

             Upon the pier, the wind and absence
             gazing out, darkening all into an empty
             canvas or pond, canvas or chasm, why not
             both or nothing but it's too cold to stand
    
             Even stars bend from pressing distance
             but eyes can capture what hands only touch

if he truly believed,
the waves would hunger yet

The breeze ran cold last night
Under raven duvet, memories went gray.
In empty hills where my desires lay;
Rain flooded my rationale insight.

I was cold even before the winds blew,
And rain came—an obligation too.

You arrived in my life like a summer’s rain,
Unexpected, unearned, but exactly what I needed.
A downpour filling the empty riverbeds of me,
Healing the cracked earth where love once tried to grow.
There I stood, arms wide open, letting you soak into my skin.
A feeling of unending, everlasting, love.

But the thing about rain,
It never asks where it is needed, it just falls.
I thought love was something to keep,
Something to hold in cupped hands…

I didn’t know it could be a season,
A passing storm that never stays.
Yet I thought, maybe,
Just maybe,
It was me.

The way my trees blew in the winds,
The way my roots stretched too far.
Were these the reasons that sent you drifting?
For your rain to fall on another land…

The thought of you still pains me,
The rain that once was still remains deep within the wells of me.
But as years pass on,
I still stand.
Greener than before,
Grateful for what once was,
Hopeful for another rain to fall

What does wind think of the camp on North 7th as it moves
under the overpass- bright blue nylon riffled,

work shirts on a rope, the entry flap breathing,
an old man’s head bent over chessboard, a rook tipping over?

What does wind know? Easy to say - nothing,
to say it knows nothing sweeping the day’s trash

down the avenue. The crawl says: fires in the West;
men with AR-15s; a mother and child face-down in the river;

children in cages, says the rise of this, the fall of that.
We say the wind knows nothing as it drives fire like a blowtorch

across the land. We blame the grid - the lineman, the line -
though we know better. We say the rain inside the wind

knows nothing, as mud swallows houses, houses fall to sea,
floods push through cities, the ocean takes back land.

We say wind and rain know nothing. We say there’s nothing
to do. The wind tussles our hair and goes on.

A tarp snaps. A rook tips. The old man uprights it.
The wind takes its turn.

There's a compass rose

in the sand, raise your finger:


what wind is blowing?

Oh west wind, wrongfully called wild, Oh dear and tender Zephyrus, How could your name ever be befiled, if they knew your gentle caress?

A face so soft and rounded strong, warm hands that comb through locks of hair. Yet I despair when I see the throng, your dying visage, my love, so fair.

Zephyrus, why do you fade away? Tell me, let me share your fate. Why, my love, do you look so sore? Is it us? Did we rob you of your state?

Exhausts exhaust, did we take your breath? Did we cost you your very life? Your quivering lips, pale as death, Zephyrus, are you consumed by strife?

My love, stay with me, I beg and plead, Don't perish, Zephyrus, don't be gone. Together, we'll change this vile deed, I'll keep you uplifted, love withdrawn.

Zephyrus, please, where have you gone? Zephyrus mine, don't be deceased. Know that I love you, even though it's wrong, this's my demise. Your song has ceased

Oh west wind, wrongfully called wild,
Oh dear and tender Zephyrus,
How could ever be your name befiled,

If they knew your soft caress?
A face so soft and rounded strong,
And warm hands that softly comb through hairs.

Yet do I despair now when I see
The face that I adore.
I see it dying, Zephyrus, why?

Tell me, let me be part of your
Sorrow and I will take your fate.
Why, my love, do you look so sore?

Is it us? Exhausts exhaust,
Did we **** you in cold blood?
Were you the one our lives have cost?

Your lips they shiver white,
Are you cold, Zephyrus, are you
Still alright? It’s a fever! Am I right?

My love, stay, I beg and plead,
Don’t die there, Zephyrus,
We'll get through this, I'll keep you upheaved.

Zephyrus, please, where are you, are you gone?
Zephyrus mine, don’t be dead.
I want you to know that, I love you, Zephyrus, even if it’s wrong.
I too have died, Zephyrus, knowing that I stopped your song.

He walked to the gate while the soft summer wind stirred the oak,
and the sun reflectively smiled in the ruts on the road,
to greet his brother Ted who’d languidly move across
so that Vic could companionably lean and look at their cattle
grazing under the Breckland pine, and reflect.

He drove his tractor and tended his fields,
enjoying the changing seasons but moaned about fen blows,
and unexpected showers which slowed the combine,
good naturedly grumbling with other farmers
about the price of fat cattle, the return on wheat,
and how many potatoes are in a packet of crisps,
when at Bury market on a Wednesday.

He’d sit to the left of the door of the Cricket Club
contentedly watching Lakenheath bat,
and readily smiled when they’d hit a six,
bringing his big brown hands together
to join in the ripple of applause.

He’d bring his prince of a Yorkshire to where
his grandchildren drooled ready for turkey
with all the trimmings, and fresh vegetables,
hearing the microwave hum, cooking the pudding
whose brandy sauce bit, before heading the evening games,
candidly laying a domino, announcing to all concerned
"Another fifteen."

He’d talk about the little black pony he drove as a youth
over top Maiden Cross Hill to Brandon,
with a cart full of produce, hating the finicky woman
who always made him eager for home.

He hoed his little bit of garden, and happily cut a lettuce for his tea,
another to pop round a neighbours' with a hand full of beans,
and a third to lay with the sack of spuds waiting for his children.

He watched the Weakest Link, and commented
on the stupidity of students, and foolish woman
wishing to spend a thousand on a handbag, and reckoned that:

“If there were more men like brother George,
who was straight and true, the world would be a better place.”

He laid in bed in the moonlight, listening
to golden oldies of yesteryear, and Victor Palmer,
the father of five, my dear Father, a gentle giant of a man,
a man of the soil, dreamed of his garden…

Crystal gusts whistle—
fox paws print icy gravel
by evergreen pines