You’ve seen the tired ceremony of felled trees.
You’ve seen the finches toss their dignity aside
for the hollow mouth at evening’s edge,
and the humble Earth saying, Here, have the night,
do with it what you please. The perfect moment of love.
Though, this wasn’t love. There were bowed trees.
The black clouds galloping across the sky. The wind
moving as if the definition of hunger, going and going
out of habit, nesting as we do when reaching a familiar field,
the natural gust of the body responding to what it finds filling,
resting in the chore of passion. What if this were love,
if wind bargained for beauty, let go of its kingdom?
It must have a thirst for tenderness, stillness in the heart.
Oh surely the distance is closing ever so slightly.
Stay inside me until the storm dies down.